You Don't Forget Your First Time
by Delilah's Soliloquy
Summary: In the aftermath of the Fifty-Fifth Hunger Games, District Three victor Wiress struggles to put her life back together. But now, she's faced with a terrifying new challenge: mentoring. They say you never forget your first time. But what exactly will Wiress remember about the Fifty-Sixth Games when they're all over? And what can a certain district partner do to help her through it?
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, everyone! I mentioned in the very first AN to my last story, _Life, By The Numbers_ that I wanted to write a happy story for Wiress and Beetee; I later wrote in my final AN that I failed, but I wrote a story in which there were both happy and sad parts. Well, I was so distressed at having killed poor Wiress off yet_ again_ that I managed to turn my pages and pages of cut scenes and background notes into about three hundred pages of AU speculation, changing one crucial detail in chapter 20 and allowing Wiress to live up through the events of Mockingjay. What, you may ask, did this accomplish? Well, it made me determined to write a story where Wiress is actually alive at the end. But rather than taking the material I already had-because that would be too easy, of course-I started fresh, turning to the past for inspiration. I looked over the 55th Games chapters I wrote for _Numbers_ and decided to take up the story from there. This is the story of Wiress' first year as a mentor, and how it begins to shape her from the frightened young girl she was into the woman she will become. It'll have its dark parts, like pretty much every story I've ever written, but I guarantee survival for both Beetee and Wiress in the ending...because if one of them died, all events in _Numbers_ post-chapter 9 or so (plus various events in _Catching Fire_ and_ Mockingjay)_ would be rendered incompatible. Take that as your guarantee, readers!_

_But first, some business. Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. If I did, I wouldn't be anxiously awaiting news of a possible tax rebate. _

_I will try to update consistently; I've got most of this story written already, but I still have about 7 chapters or so to go, so if there's an inordinate delay of more than a couple of days, it's probably due to one of the following reasons: lack of feedback (that's my shameless plug for reviews, there), outside obligations (take your pick: work, school, family, cat, miscellaneous), or unwritten material. I __apologize in advance._

_And so, enjoy. Think of Chapter One as a sort of prologue, if you will. I'm off to see if my husband will hold the flashlight while I change the spark plugs in my car. I probably should've done so before we got snow the other day, but I can be absentminded._

* * *

1

Summer is coming. You can hear it in the breeze; you can feel it in the weak sunshine that seems to grow stronger every day. Soon it will be here, alternately steamy and dry.

A year ago, I'd been wondering if I'd live to see another summer.

Last summer, I was in the Capitol, then in an arena where I waded through swamp water and looped wire over trees and wrestled with a scared boy over a knife and held him as we lay dying. Only I didn't die. He beat me to it.

This summer, I'm home in District Three and everything is different. My hope, my dearest wish had been that _finally_, once I got home, everything would go back to normal. This was not the case.

I woke up one day last summer in a bed in a white room. It was very quiet; all I could hear was the faint beeping of monitors, the almost inaudible rustle of the rough cotton gown they've dressed me in, my own slow breathing. Sounds seemed to have amplified about a million times. My senses were out of balance with each other. The room's very whiteness seemed to glow.

I don't know how long I spent in that white room, sipping broth off a spoon that my mentors Beetee and Gloria took turns holding to my lips. When they talked, their voices seemed to echo bizarrely; I don't know if mine would do the same because I couldn't bring myself to speak. What would I even say? Instead, I just lay there, my fingers tracing patterns on the blanket thrown over my lap, the splint they'd affixed to my broken leg, the almost-invisible traces of the scar under my left eye, final relic of the boy from District Two, whom I'd murdered. I wondered what they did to me while I was sleeping. Someone brought me a mirror. I didn't look like I'd been through hell—I looked fresh, innocent. Only the eyes gave me away for what I am. Haunted eyes. Hollow.

Time lost all meaning in that place. I could've been there a couple of days, or maybe a month, or even several years. I believe one of the first things I asked when I got home was "How old am I?", because I needed confirmation that I hadn't just spent most of my life in a hospital room. No, the only thing I could ascertain for sure was that it was still summer when I stepped off the train in District 3. You could tell by the feeling in the air—heavy, laden with parched dust and soot, oppressive at times. The sunlight glaring through it to the burning pavement was sharp and cruel.

I came home last summer barely speaking, struggling to recognize those around me through the haze of pain. My father met me at the train station with tears in his eyes; my sister Electra tried to bite her lip to keep from sobbing outright (she failed in this).

"My baby, my little girl," Dad murmured as he made his way onto the train platform and gathered me into his arms to a roar of approval from the crowd. I buried my face in the rough canvas shoulder of his work clothes. I could not cry. I had to be strong. I'd made it this far.

Electra had lost all composure at this point; she released her fiancé's hand and rushed over as I detached myself from Dad, taking my face in her hands and brushing errant strands of dark hair back. Her eyes were shiny with tears. "I can't _believe_ it; we were so scared…_so_ scared…" She kissed my cheek, squeezed me until I felt lightheaded and then set her sights on my mentors. "_Thank you_, thank you…I don't know how we'll _ever_…" she cried, all very hurriedly, as she pulled them both into a very tight hug. They exchanged confused glances, but I supposed this was better than the reception they usually got from dead tributes' families. One man a year or two before gave Beetee a black eye because his son made it to the final eight, only to die shortly after. He called Gloria all sorts of foul names, too; names you shouldn't use in reference to a lady. My family may have been oddly affectionate, but at least they were neither violent nor profane.

Bolton, my brother, hung back a bit. He was fifteen, and in the midst of all the chaos I realized that I hadn't even heard him speak since before the Reaping. He'd been withdrawn and quiet before we headed to the District Center that day, and then after I was called and escorted into the Justice Building, he'd been too upset to translate his goodbyes into words. All he'd done was cry, then look down into his lap, ashamed at not having been stronger, ashamed that he may have upset me. I analyzed the cautious expression on his face. I decided he was afraid of me.

* * *

Summer slipped almost imperceptibly into autumn, and I found myself trying to establish a rhythm for my new life. We left the third floor apartment that had been home for so long and moved into a pristine new home in the Victor's Village that seemed like a palace in comparison to our old four rooms. It didn't feel like home though. This new house bore no traces of my mother, and I found it hard to pull up memories of her without the familiar triggers—the beaten-up old stove she'd made all our meals at, the spot on the window she'd always wiped clean of grim so she could peer out and watch us on the street in front of our building, the sewing basket with the half-knitted scarf she'd started for me when I was eight and died before she could finish. My father, unable to throw the basket or that old scarf away (even though none of us can knit), moved it to the new house an set it down purposefully next to a fine armchair in the living room. "Now your mother's here, too," he said simply.

I wish she really _were_ here. I spent all of the fall and much of the winter wandering my new house at night, in the eerie silence, insensible of the draft. I'd curl up in that chair, raise the unfinished scarf to my face and breathe in her scent—or perhaps what I imagined to be her scent—wordlessly pleading for advice.

_Help me, Mother,_ I'd think, _I don't know what to do. I want to go back to normal, but I don't know how. I'm stuck, I think._

And then I'd picture her stroking my hair, like she'd done when I was just a little girl, and whispering soothingly in my ear.

_Oh, Wiress, my love,_ she'd say, _I know it hurts. But you have to keep trying. They want to help you, sweetheart, they do. They just don't know how. Find a distraction._

A distraction? How could I distract myself from what I'd seen? From what I'd _done_?

_Wiress, my Wiress, always so smart…you have a way of drifting off into your own world. You can't let it be a world of pain and regret. Find something to draw you back into this world…the one where there are people trying to help you. You don't have to do it all alone. My brave girl…you can learn to trust again. Not everyone is trying to hurt you, and you don't have to be the only one protecting them. It goes both ways, sweetheart. It's a closed circuit. Around and around._

* * *

As the weather grew colder, I was sent off on my Victory Tour and found my voice again, though it was with a certain degree of dismay. My speech was halting now; words eked out a couple at a time as my thoughts whirred miles ahead of my comments. I left in moderate dread and minor curiosity; I returned in supreme distress and a tiny degree of relief.

"What've you _done_ to her?" my father asked, aghast, as Beetee stood beside me on the steps of my new house, making sure I got inside okay.

"The _Tour_ did this to her," Beetee replied levelly. "It's kind of unpreventable."

Dad narrowed his eyes, wondering how much to believe. I gazed up at him, pleading for him to see that it was true, because now that I had a friend, I didn't want to lose him. Friends had been pretty scarce since my return from the Games. They didn't know how to approach the new me.

* * *

It took until spring for the scars of the Tour to fade noticeably. I started sleeping again, though not well; I started eating again, though unenthusiastically; I started fooling around with odds and ends around the house and discovered that having a hobby did just what my mother had promised: it pulled me back. I was relieved, because I'd spent many an idle winter day flexing my fingers threateningly in my lap, wondering if I was primed to harm someone, maybe myself. By the day of Electra's wedding, in early April, I looked almost normal again.

What's the old adage? 'One step forward, two steps back?' I turned nineteen a few weeks after Electra's wedding. Beetee bought me a cake, a real cake, from the bakery, and we lit candles and everything. Then I climbed on board a train and headed off to the Capitol to spend my birthday with a man who paid money in exchange for my innocence.

April really _is_ the cruelest month.

* * *

But now the spring is ending and summer is approaching and that means it's almost time for the Games again. You can feel it in the District; a sort of mounting tension like a pot being brought to the boil. My brother's taken to speaking even less than me at mealtimes, and now that Electra's moved out, that makes meals very somber occasions. Dad's been toying with the idea of going home, to our old apartment, with my brother, now that I seem 'so much better.' It seems it's Bolton who needs watching and caring for now. After all, he might soon become like _me_.

These Games are different than last year's, than any previous year's. This time, I will be a mentor. This time, it will be my job to comfort and reassure and be strong.

I'm not sure I'm up to the job.

I decide that I hate summer.

* * *

_Well, I hope you enjoyed Chapter One and are looking forward to Chapter Two, in which Wiress attends her first Reaping as a victor. Who will be called? Who will be spared? Is she right about not being to to the job? And, most importantly, what did you think? I'm hoping to hear from you, so please take a minute to review and say hello._

_Yours,_

_Delilah_

_PS-I've decided I hate those little gray lines, but what can we do? Doc Manager refuses to allow double spaces between paragraphs. Another pet peeve. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Welcome back, everyone, just in time for Chapter 2! First off, I'd like to thank my reviewers from Chapter 1: **NutsandVolts** and **welcome to the masquerade**. I hope everyone else out there is good and inspired to review! Yes, I can guilt-trip with the best of them._

_As promised, Ch. 2 takes us to Reaping Day. Believe it or not, I managed to find a little bit of comedy in the whole disgraceful spectacle. I guess it's like the saying goes: if you don't laugh, you'll cry._

* * *

2

Reaping Day is overcast. I stand in the lobby of the Justice Building, toying absentmindedly with the end of a lock of hair. The mayor is in conversation with Lucretia, our district escort, and someone whom I assume is filming this for TV. Gloria is straightening Beetee's collar. She acts like his mother at times. Come to think of it, she acts like _my_ mother at times, too, but unlike me, Beetee actually still _has_ a mother living, so it's strange to see Gloria stepping in to fill a role that's already occupied.

"Just stand _still_ a second, won't you?" she fusses. Beetee raises his eyebrows in disbelief and lets out a sigh. When he speaks, it's hard not to think of a frustrated child.

"It's _fine_, Gloria, do you _really_ think they'll be paying much attention to any of us, anyway? I think their main preoccupation will be _not getting chosen_."

I stifle a laugh at this last comment, even though there's really nothing funny at all about the situation, and both of them look over at me. Beetee gives me a conspiratorial smile of sorts; Gloria shakes her head and bustles over to fix my hair.

"_Don't_ toy with it, girl, stop fidgeting," she murmurs, and I frown at Beetee in mock outrage that he escaped Gloria's ministrations at my expense. He rearranges his face into a transparent mask of feigned innocence, as if to say, "Who, _me_? Surely not!" But before either of us can say anything, the mayor walks up to us, closely tailed by Lucretia, and glances around.

"It's about that time," she says inscrutably. She's a difficult woman to read, the mayor. She shakes her frizzy hair out of her face and leads the way out onto the platform in front of the building, standing very straight, followed by Lucretia and us victors. As the newest addition to the ensemble, I am last.

I make my way to the empty seat at the end of the row, beside Beetee, and look out onto the sea of frightened faces. Somewhere, my brother's out there, with the other sixteen-year-olds. I realize my hands are shaking in my lap.

"Calm," says Beetee in an undertone, placing one of his hands over mine. "This is only the beginning."

"Does it get better?" I ask in barely more than a whisper. He closes his eyes, as though lost in thought, and finally answers, "In some ways, yes." It's not totally reassuring, but I'll take what I can get.

"Do you remember what it was like the first year you mentored?" I ask tentatively, under cover of the mayor reading the indescribably dull history of Panem that we hear every year.

"Oh, yes," he replies, and for a second he once again looks lost in memories. "You never forget your first time."

Great.

My thoughts are interrupted by the mayor clearing her throat after the end of her history lecture. "And now, I present you with the list of District Three's past Hunger Games victors."

The mayor reads the names off the list, so few of them, and it sends a jolt through my body like a live current to hear myself added on at the end of the list. It drives it home that _yes, this really is happening; yes, this is your life now, this is who you are_. There is silence in the crowd following my name. They're still getting food parcels once a month in celebration of my victory, but that won't continue after this month, when there's a new victor, and then the only reason most of these people have for admiring me will fade away like the sunset.

The mayor introduces Lucretia, still bubbly even though this is now her third straight year working with District Three rather than a more prestigious district, one with more than three living victors. I wonder why she hasn't tired of us yet. Maybe the excitement of escorting a winner last year kept things fresh for Lucretia. There's no telling what goes through that woman's head, if anything at all.

"Good morning, District Three!" she trills like an overexcited canary. The kids in the crowd stare at her blankly, and we on the stage stare just as blankly at the back of her bewigged head. Lucretia pays this no mind, however, and launches into a pretty lengthy speech about what an _honor_ it is to be here today, in District Three, home to the newest Hunger Games victor—here, I slouch down in my chair as far as I can, wishing I could turn invisible because I know _every single person_ is staring at me—and speculating aloud whether we can follow up last year's stunning victory with a repeat performance.

A repeat performance of _what_, exactly? _I_ don't recall any stunning victory. If I think about it—which I rarely do intentionally—all I can recall is two scared, broken tributes from forgettable districts wrestling a knife from each other, bleeding on the ground, waiting to die or outlive one another. I can't for the life of me conjure up any images of a hero's thrilling victory over a despicable foe, or any of what Lucretia's proposing here. But I keep my mouth shut, because what do I know, anyway?

Lucretia pauses for a moment in her speech, looks fondly over her shoulder at me, then returns her bright gaze to the crowd. She's immaculately dressed all in pale blue this year, with long strands of glittering glass beads trailing down from her neck and multiple silver rings on her tapering fingers catching the light as she gesticulates for the crowd. The lights from the cameras flash off the rings and the occasional patches of light they send dancing across the stage distract me and make it difficult for me to keep my focus on the reaping, on my job.

"Girls or boys?" Lucretia's crowing; apparently the novelty of treating the reaping as a sort of game hasn't died out yet. "Well, since we gave the boys the honor of going first last year," she reasons, glibly sidestepping the fact that not a single member of the audience has called out a preference for either boys or girls, "let's let the girls go first this time around!" And with that, she reaches deftly into the glass ball heaped with little slips of folded paper, slips of folded paper bearing girls' names, girls who are just like I once was.

The paper caught between Lucretia's skinny fingers is a depressing, muted grayish-white, subtly echoing the grayness of the sky that continues to darken. It couldn't be any more different that the clear blue skies and bright sun of my own reaping day last year. It suits my mood, and the general mood of the crowd. It suits the despicable nature of this day and the bleak insanity that keeps the whole Hunger Games system going, year after year. Lucretia unfolds the paper delicately, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, then licks her magenta lips as she steps up to the microphone and carefully enunciates: "Deirdre Hertz."

I cringe. This is harder than I even thought it would be, especially now that the tribute has a name and a face. Deirdre emerges from the middle of the crowd, closer to the front than the back, around where Bolton should be standing, so I estimate her to be about sixteen. She's skinny and small, not much taller than I am, and her curly brown hair is tied back with a rubber band. She has on an old dress that probably belonged to an older sister, maybe even her mother—a green one, with a zig-zag trim that I believe my stylist Felix once referred to as 'rickrack.' She looks terrified, wide eyes staring around as she steps out of the crowd of teenagers, looking first one way, then the other, as if someone might step up and save her. No one does. No one _ever_ does. Vaguely, as though in a dream, she glides slowly forward, towards the steps, and ascends them one by one. The silence in the crowd is so absolute that we can hear the echoing sounds her shoes make as they hit the steps.

Lucretia beckons Deirdre to the center of the stage and presents her to the crowd, waiting for applause that will never come. She beams at the girl as if she's just won some kind of commendation rather than condemnation to almost certain death. Deirdre doesn't reply, apparently gritting her teeth to keep from screaming in terror.

Lucretia steps forward again, babbling on inanely about how it's time to choose the boy tribute and I take a moment to study the girl I'll be mentoring. She seems to sense my eyes on her, because she turns and looks over her shoulder, very briefly, and locks eyes with me. She looks petrified, and I try to give what I hope is a reassuring smile, but I freeze and probably end up looking merely strange. This is not right. And I should not be smiling.

"Torque Faraday," comes Lucretia's voice from somewhere in front of us and from the very front of the assembled crowd, I see a tall, well-built boy who must be eighteen step forward. He looks vaguely familiar, and then it hits me where I've seen him before: at the automotive factory where my father works, when I've stopped by to bring him lunch a few times. It would have been in the last year that I'd run into this boy, because before I became a victor and needed a way to pass the lonely hours of my empty days (there's only so much time I can spend bothering Beetee and Gloria and fooling around with foil and wire at my kitchen table, after all), I'd never had the time to bring my father lunch. Now, I make time. But now that I've made the connection, it all comes back to me—this strong-looking boy, probably as undernourished as most kids in Three are, but hardened by years of lifting immensely heavy car parts and fitting them together by hand.

Beetee looks from the boy tribute, who's just crossed the stage, to me, then raises his eyebrows. I know what he's thinking: _since when have we had strong-looking tributes in District 3?_ It's pretty much the same thing I'm thinking. This boy Torque stands out almost as much as Lucretia does; only his ashen complexion and dark brown hair give him away as one of us.

"And so, according to Hunger Games tradition, it is customary that I now open up the field for any volunteers!" trills Lucretia, extending a hand out to the crowd of relieved kids who weren't chosen. Predictably, no one steps forward. There hasn't been a volunteer in district Three in living memory, perhaps ever. I think Electra told me a story about a kid who volunteered once, but I'm pretty sure she just made it all up to mess with me and Bolton. Torque's expression hardens with resignation; Deirdre looks like she's fighting the urge to cry. Recognizing a cue when she sees one, the mayor steps forward and reads the Treaty of Treason, apparently for the edification of all. She then indicates that the tributes should shake hands, which they do, stiffly. As the anthem plays, we are all ushered into the Justice Building without a word.

* * *

_Well? Thoughts? I hope you enjoyed Chapter 2 and are looking forward to Chapter 3, where we'll find out just what mentors do to pass the time when the tributes are saying goodbye to their parents. In the meantime, pass the time writing your review! Yes, I'm done hinting. I hope to be back either tomorrow or the next day; your reviews and my progress on the six remaining chapters will be the deciding factors._

_Until then,_

_Delilah_


	3. Chapter 3

_Back again, with Chapter 3! My special thanks go out to Ch. 2's reviewers, **NutsandVolts** and **SassyRedhead**. I promise to take up a minimal amount of your time today; so let's jump right in, shall we?_

* * *

3

Once we're inside the Justice Building, the tributes are whisked off into separate rooms to wait for their families. Lucretia bustles off talking to a member of the television crew, and all I catch are some high-pitched exclamations of excitement that are jarring in the presence of two teenagers who may soon be dead.

Beetee, Gloria and I stand, looking a little lost, in the now-almost-deserted lobby of the Justice Building. "What do we do now?" I ask.

_"You_ get ready to head out to the Capitol," Gloria answers matter-of-factly. "Aren't you coming?" I ask in surprise. Gloria's been a Hunger Games constant since before I was born, I'm pretty sure. However, Gloria shakes her head. "I'm not really feeling up to it this year," she confesses. She's made this journey so many times before that I wonder for a moment if it's strange for her, not going to the Capitol this year. Probably it's just a relief.

Without further elaboration, Gloria gives both of us a hug and proceeds back out the front doors. Through the open doorway, I can see the crowds in the square dispersing. Their part in this year's drama is over. Mine has just barely begun.

A couple of Peacekeepers escort a bunch of people inside, who I take to be the tributes' families. One group follows Marcellus, an older Peacekeeper that I recognize from my old neighborhood, into Deirdre's room. There's a man and woman who I assume are her parents and a girl who looks to be maybe eleven or twelve. She's got brown hair set in twin braids that hang neatly down her back. Marcellus steps aside so that Deirdre's parents can pass by, but the little girl stops when she sees me and Beetee standing respectfully off to a side, waiting to be of use to somebody. Glancing over her shoulder at her parents, she relinquishes her father's hand and strides boldly right up to me.

"You're my sister's mentor, aren't you?" she says, clearly trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"I—I, yes…I am," I stammer, slightly taken aback. I didn't expect to be talking to families just now, and I don't know what to say, much less how to say it.

"We both are," Beetee adds, coming to my rescue as he's known to do. It's becoming a bit of a habit with him. I wonder what he means by it, because I'm not nearly as good at rescuing him as he is at rescuing me.

The girl's face softens into a pleading expression. "Please," she says, tears welling up in her big brown eyes, "please d-don't let my sister d-die. You can help her, c-can't you?"

"I-I'll try," I answer, knowing how weak this sounds. _If Electra were reaped and I asked her mentor to try and save her, _I think to myself, _I'd give up after getting a reaction like this. She must hate me._

"We'll do everything we can to bring her home," Beetee interjects smoothly, and I'm beginning to wonder why _I_ need to go to the Capitol at all, when clearly Beetee's got this situation under control—or as close to _under control_ as it can possibly be. If Beetee _really_ had the whole situation under control, we wouldn't be going at all, but that's beyond any of our capabilities.

The little girl sniffles pitifully, nods, and wanders off into the room where her parents are probably saying goodbye to their daughter. Completely shaken, I look down the hall a bit, where a Peacekeeper I don't recognize is gesturing for the occupants of Torque's room to finish up. A moment later, a woman emerges, alone. She's dabbing at her eyes with a worn handkerchief, her shoulders shuddering with repressed sobs.

"Don't cry, Mom," I hear Torque say gruffly, "That's exactly what they want you to do. Don't let them see your tears. I won't let you down, I swear." His face is stoic, even grim. He looks like a boy trying desperately to be a man, even if he'd much rather run to his mother for comfort.

Mrs. Faraday nods, murmurs something that comes out unintelligibly due to the fact that she's still crying, and gives her son one last hug and kiss before being led off by the unknown Peacekeeper. Beetee and I hover uncertainly on the spot for a moment, before realizing that Torque has no other visitors. He has only this one, solitary woman, whose retreating back is heading out the door as I watch. Then, without thinking, I walk across the room to his doorway.

Torque is sitting on a blue velvet sofa, stroking its plush surface absently. He's staring at the wall without really seeing it. I can tell because I've wasted hour after hour doing precisely that in the months after I came back from the Games.

"Was that your mother?" asks Beetee's voice from behind me. He's apparently followed me over to check on Torque. Either that or he's merely bored. Or stalking, me perhaps. His motives are a mystery to me.

"Yeah," the boy responds shortly. "She gets…emotional…over stuff like this. She can't help it. It's just the way it is." He's trying to be tough, to impress us with his bravery, but I know he's scared. I'd be impressed anyway. I know what it's like. So does Beetee, for that matter.

"It's okay," I begin, trying to convey more than just the obvious in my sparse words. "She's just…just worried about you. You can't blame…"

I trail off pointlessly, inwardly cursing myself for my failure to communicate. I look over at Beetee, who nods, realizing immediately that he is to pick up where I left off.

"You can't blame her," he clarifies, and Torque nods slowly in understanding.

"I just worry about her, is all," he concedes. "I'm all she's got, and when I'm gone…" He trails off weakly, his voice just barely starting to waver, but stops himself before he can get too visibly upset, and I lay a hand gently on his arm, hoping to comfort him when I know, deep down, that there's no way I can.

"There's no saying you can't win," Beetee reasons. "You're strong and brave and smart, I'm sure, and you've got as much chance as anyone else." For a moment, we all look at each other, warmed by this rare expression of optimism, before thinking to ourselves that this is just rhetoric. Words. No substance, not really.

"Anyway, we'll see you on the train, we've just got to get a few things in order first," Beetee continues briskly. Then he leans in closer to Torque and whispers, "There'll be cameras there, so before you leave this room, think really hard about how you want the people all over Panem to see you. How do you want to be remembered? Because first impressions are priceless." Torque looks up, thoughtful, and Beetee sweeps from the room with me tagging close behind.

"That was very good, Wiress," he says to me as we walk down the hallway, towards the back door of the Justice Building.

"What?" I ask, flustered.

"What you did in there. To try and comfort him, I mean. If we can keep them calm, then we can work out a plan with them. But if we let them give up, then they've already lost."

"The other tributes—" I begin, because surely Beetee isn't suggesting that skinny little Deirdre stands as much a chance as some muscle-bound giant from District Two?

"—Are something we'll worry about later," he concludes. "Size and strength count for a lot, but they're not everything. I mean, look at the girl who won last year's Games! Tiny little thing. Brilliant, though. Wish I'd had some money to bet on _her_; I'd be a rich man!"

I stop, startled for a moment by his offhand comment, wondering if it's okay for him to be making jokes and for me to be laughing at them when we're about to accompany two scared teenagers to the Hunger Games. I'm unsure about so much—what's okay and what isn't; what the nature of our interactions should be. He smiles at me and takes my hand.

"Listen, Wiress," he says, "I know this is hard, and I know you don't think you can do it, but we're a team and I'm right here with you the whole way. Alright?"

I nod, shakily, wondering why the simple act of him taking my hand could make me feel so…however I'm feeling right now. I guess I'm overwhelmed by it all—being back at the Games, being responsible for someone's life. Apparently satisfied with my response, Beetee leads me outside to a couple of cars, waiting to take us all to the train station. The sun has finally stopped trying to shine through the thick clouds overhead, and as the Capitol driver holds the door open for me, raindrops start to fall gently from the overcast skies like tears.

* * *

_Hmm...maybe there's something to that whole 'magical thinking' theory...what do you think? Do we stand a chance against the Careers? I'm a pessimist by nature, and Wiress seems to be taking after me in that area, but every story needs an optimist, I suppose. _

_Well, anyway, I hope you enjoyed Ch. 3 and are looking forward to the journey into the Capitol, which with any luck I'll be able to share tomorrow! In the meantime, review, because you know you secretly love it. _

_Cheers,_

_Delilah_


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi, everyone! Sorry, no update yesterday, but I was feeling rather under the weather by the time I got home from work. I hope you forgive me._

_Shout out to **NutsandVolts**-thanks for reviewing!_

_Today's chapter's a little longer, hooray! But the next one is longer still, so I won't get too excited just yet._

* * *

4

By the time we arrive at the train station, which only takes a few minutes, the rain is falling steadily. The driver walks around to open the doors for Beetee and me and holds an umbrella over our heads as we step out. I'm not used to this kind of service, and it unnerves me a bit. But Beetee seems to take it all in stride, thanking the driver politely as we head towards the train platform, so I copy his example with a 'thank-you' of my own.

The tributes emerge from the car in front of ours, accompanied by Lucretia. I instantly pity them even more than I already had; any car ride with Lucretia, no matter how short, is an ordeal. A crowd of cameras swarms forward at the sight of the tributes. Torque's face is set in determination. He looks completely focused, as if he's working out his strategy at this very moment, and I don't want to be the one to pull him out of his thoughts. Deirdre is fidgeting nervously; she looks scared, but she also looks like she's trying very hard to hide it. Her eyes dart from one camera to the next, clearly wondering what she should be doing and how she should be presenting herself. Overcome with pity, it's my first instinct to get them on the train as soon as possible and away from the lights and the noise and the constant scrutiny.

"Can't we…?" I ask Beetee, and he looks puzzled for a moment as he tries to piece together what I'm asking. He's getting pretty good at finishing my unfinished sentences, but it's something we're still working on. Hopefully by the time we get it down to a flawless system, I'll be able to finish my _own_ sentences again.

"Can't we…?" Beetee repeats, still trying to figure it out. "…Get them on the train?" I finish, pleased to have gotten it all out for myself. Beetee glances from me, standing opposite him, still under the umbrella, to the tributes, who are already surrounded by a crowd of reporters and camerapeople. In lieu of a response, Beetee pushes forward through the crowd, turns to face the cameras, gives them a winning smile, places his hands on Deirdre's shoulders and steers her up the steps onto the train without a single word of explanation to the camera crews, who are looking downcast. Torque turns to follow them and I immediately do the same. They're all hollering questions, asking for 'just one comment,' so, on sudden inspiration, I give them one.

"See you in the Capitol," I add over my shoulder, and all of a sudden the cameras are on _me,_ Panem's newest victor, headed off to her first stint as a mentor.

_Did I really just say that?_ I ask myself as Lucretia follows me onto the train, still sticking her head out, waving to the crowds and generally making a spectacle of herself. Beetee, standing a few feet away with the tributes, is chuckling.

"'See you in the Capitol'? I love it!" he laughs to himself, stopping only when he sees that no one else is laughing, sees the clueless expressions we're all wearing. "Well, _I_ thought it was funny," he explains to no one in particular, before trailing off inaudibly like I usually do.

Both tributes look terrible, like trapped animals. They take a look at their surroundings—even in my terror of imminent death last year, I couldn't help being impressed by the unsurpassed luxury of the tribute train—but even their curiosity can't fully hide their fear and uncertainty. Lucretia deftly ignores this.

"I know, lovely isn't it? It must be such a change after your drab little district! Anyway, here you can do whatever you want. _Everything_ here is for your enjoyment! I _know_, right? You'll have your own rooms, with plenty of nice clothes for you to choose from, and of course your own bathrooms…I suppose you'll want to freshen up a bit, before dinner? Just be back in an hour."

The tributes stand, paralyzed in amazement at Lucretia's utter cluelessness and fundamental lack of tact as she simpers at them, clearly trapped in the delusion that the tributes are overawed by this show of generosity on behalf of the Capitol and their speechlessness is merely due to the fact that they're currently asking themselves how they could be so lucky to have been chosen. Beetee and I are more used to Lucretia's cluelessness, but it still never fails to shock me at moments like this. Deirdre looks at me for confirmation, so I nod, and she turns and makes her way down the length of the train car. Torque hesitates a moment, then follows her.

I'm at a loss for what to do with myself, how to sort through the emotions of the day, what to do when I'm waiting for dinner, so I sink onto a velvet sofa and gaze blankly out the window. The scenery whips past in a blur. Lucretia mentions something about changing her dress and bustles off to her room; Beetee sits down beside me. We sit there, watching the landscape roll by outside the window for a while. Finally, I tear my eyes from the landscape to meet his. I sense he wants to talk, and after a little bit of quiet, I feel like I'm ready to listen.

"So?" he asks, and I find myself needing further explanation.

"What?" I ask, waiting for him to elaborate.

"How are you?" Beetee asks, and I know it's not just a conversation starter. There are more layers of meaning in this one question than anyone would suspect. He's concerned about me, about how I'm holding up. Part of me wishes he didn't think I was so fragile, that he didn't feel the need to protect me all the time, but another part of me is secretly grateful that I have someone so dependable in my corner.

"I'm…okay," I begin, but I can't lie to him. Not to Beetee. I can lie to the cameras and Lucretia because it's none of their business what I'm thinking anyway, and I can lie to my dad and Electra and Bolton because I want to protect them from the truth. But I can't lie to Beetee, because he understands me. Not many people do anymore.

"I can't look at them," I confess guiltily, like a mother admitting she can't love her own baby, and Beetee makes a sympathetic noise. "I can't look at them, and…and know what's going to…"

"I know, Wiress, but you can't let yourself think that way," Beetee advises. "Otherwise, you'll just give up, and if you and I give up, then those kids in there don't stand a chance."

"But what can we do to…?"

"To help them? We have to play to their strengths. And to do that, we have to find out everything we can about them—their strengths, their weaknesses, their fears, the people they're fighting for back home." Beetee raises his chin slightly, giving me a look that clearly shows that he's thought this little speech through. Maybe he practiced it in the mirror this morning. I wouldn't put it past him to do so. It's quite effective, and I think he knows it, because he's looking pretty smug.

"I just hope they _have_ strengths," I say desperately, wondering what secret strengths our tributes could possibly have that could compensate for the murderous prowess of the Career Tributes.

"They do," Beetee insists.

"_I_ didn't."

"Excuse me, you most certainly _did_. Best mind to come to the Hunger Games since what's-his-name…that fellow from Three, starts with a 'B', I think, who won a few years before you…"

I giggle unwillingly, because it strikes me anew that we shouldn't be joking with each other, not when we're faced with the near-impossible task of saving these poor kids' lives. I check myself mentally; I keep calling them 'kids,' but Torque's just a year younger than me, and Deirdre is the same age as my brother.

"Best be getting yourself ready for dinner," Beetee says suddenly, and I look up to see a number of Capitol servers making their way in, bearing dishes and platters and crystal decanters full of expensive wines and other drinks I don't recognize. Could an hour have gone by so fast? How long had I been staring out that window? Or does a Capitol-style meal just require that much time in advance to set up? These days, nothing would surprise me.

Lucretia's arrival is heralded by a cloud of cloying perfume that's so thick you can practically _see_ it. She's changed into an elaborately beaded dress that rattles when she walks, complete with a matching wig. She smiles upon seeing Beetee and me. "Right on time, excellent!" she coos. "I _do_ love to see mentors taking their job seriously! Now, where have those tributes gotten to?" And without waiting for either of us to answer her, she sweeps off in search of the tributes, rattling every step of the way.

Lucretia returns a moment later, this time accompanied by Torque and Deirdre. Torque's sneezing, probably from the perfumed haze emanating from his district escort. Deirdre's eyes are red. It looks like she's spent the past hour crying; her reaping dress is wrinkled, probably from throwing herself facedown on her bed in utter defeat.

The tributes settle themselves uncertainly into chairs at the table. They take one look at the Capitol servers as they set plate after plate of decadent food on the table. Torque moves the food around his plate with his fork; Deirdre merely pushes the plate away from her, looking ill.

"You should eat," I say, pushing it back toward her. Deirdre scowls at me, as if to ask who _I_ am to insist that she eat, whether I even remember what it felt like to be condemned to death.

"I'm not hungry," she says flatly, toying with the tines on her fork. Torque nods silently, united with his district partner in their distrust, their feeling of being misunderstood, their sense of loss.

"You really need to eat," I insist, "because…if you can put on some weight…before the arena, I mean…it will…"

"It will really help," Beetee finishes, looking thoughtful. "Wiress is right; for the next few days, you'll be able to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, so it couldn't hurt to put on some extra weight before the Games begin, because food won't be so easy to come by in the arena."

The tributes exchange an undecipherable glance, then tentatively start in on the food on their plates. I feel an unexpected satisfaction as I shift my focus to my own plate—I feel like I've accomplished something. I got the tributes to eat. Okay, so maybe Beetee helped…maybe he did most of the work…I don't know, but I definitely _started_ the conversation. That's something, right? It may not be a big deal, but maybe it's the first step in gaining their trust and finding a way to save one of them, like Beetee said.

* * *

_Well, I hope you enjoyed today's update. Our next chapter features the recap of the reapings, some mentorly advice and the answer to a long-debated puzzle: just how_ did_ Wiress overcome her fear of the dark? And just who are our tributes up against this year, anyway?_

_I'm hoping to hear from you in your review! Right now, all I'm hearing is the ridiculously loud wind outside my windows._

_All the best,_

_Delilah_


	5. Chapter 5

_Good evening! Hope everyone's doing well. Friday couldn't come fast enough, if I'm honest with myself..._

_Special, review-related thanks goes to **NutsandVolts**._

* * *

5

After dinner, we all sit down to watch the recap of the reapings in the other districts. I've never enjoyed this, but Lucretia's positively writhing with excitement and Beetee concedes.

"You need to learn everything you can about your opponents," he says when Torque protests that he can't face even the thought of any more tributes tonight. "Would you rather go into training knowing nothing about them?"

_No_, I think to myself, even though the question wasn't directed at me. Torque offers no argument, but rather throws himself listlessly on the sofa and allows Beetee to turn on the television.

The anthem starts up and Claudius Templesmith appears on the screen, with some guest commentator I don't recognize. They're bantering back and forth about the prospects of this year's tributes, where the smart money will be, and suddenly they cue up the tapes of the footage from the reapings.

Districts 1 and 2 produce more of the same Career Tributes that turn up in every Games. One of the girls looks big enough to kill me with her bare hands. Overall, they don't make much of an impression on me, because the only thought that goes through my mind when I see Careers is to get myself as far away as possible, as fast as possible. I make a mental note to try and learn more about them at the tribute parade. Next comes our district. The comments about Deirdre's small size are as expected, as are the comparisons the hosts draw to me.

"Tragic-looking little thing. Could be hiding some tricks up her sleeve, though, don't you think? What do you think, viewers—do we have another Wiress Purcelle on our hands this year?"

I wish they'd stop mentioning me. All it does is remind all of Panem that I'm alive.

Then Torque is called and the commentary ventures off into unfamiliar territory.

"Well, what do you know—looks like District Three produced a real fighter this year!"

"It certainly does; look at those muscles! _Definitely_ unexpected, coming from the factory district. With a little training, I wouldn't be surprised if this young man stands a real chance of winning!"

None of us speak. Torque looks dumbfounded; Beetee and I are united in our desire not to tempt fate by agreeing with the commentary on the TV screen. Lucretia's unable to translate her high hopes into words recognizable to another human; instead, she's bouncing up and down in place, flapping her hands as if hoping to take flight.

The remaining districts replace ours on the screen, one by one. I try to make mental notes about their tributes but I can't remember them all. Some stand out. A beautiful girl from Four with an innocent-looking face, surprising in a girl who's probably trained to become a killer since she was small. A twelve-year-old from Seven, who the Peacekeepers need to physically drag up the steps to the stage. A crafty-looking girl from Eight. A boy from Ten who looks like he's playing the role of a Career on stage, acting tough but not really convincing anyone. A pair from Twelve that look alike enough to be twins.

After the last bit of reaping footage ends, Claudius and his guest commentator speculate endlessly on the odds, on each tribute's merits…or lack thereof. Beetee clicks the remote and the screen fades to blackness. Again, no one speaks. Silently, the tributes rise and walk out, towards their rooms. They have nothing to say about their opponents, their chances, the confused jumble of emotions they're likely experiencing right now. There's nothing to do but follow them, although who knows how I'll sleep with the images of the twenty-four tributes' faces swimming through my mind.

* * *

I'm in the bathroom, washing my face in the sink before bed, when I hear it. A soft, muffled sound that takes me back to that long-ago afternoon we found my mother crying, cowering in her bed as my sister and I spied from the doorway. It's sobbing, stifled by a pillow to dull the sound. I pull on a dressing gown I found in one of my drawers and tiptoe out the bedroom door to see if I can find the source of the noise.

It doesn't take me long to find my way to Deirdre's door. I knock softly, and when there's no answer except a slight abatement in the sobbing, I push the door open a crack and stick my head in.

"Deirdre?" I call. She's curled up on her bed in a pathetic little ball, knees drawn up to her chest. A single sob escapes her as she raises her head from the pillow to look at me. Her hair is messy and her eyes are red, tear-tracks glistening on her cheeks. She looks like a scared little girl, one maybe half her age.

"Can I come in?" I ask softly. She shrugs her shoulders noncommittally. I take this for assent and, closing the door softly behind me, I settle myself on the edge of the bed beside her.

_What do I say to her?_ I ask myself, _what words could possibly make her feel better?_ I'm trying to think back to this time last year, when _I'd_ been the inconsolable lump on the bed, but I can't think of what I would've liked to hear to make it all better, except maybe, "The Hunger Games are cancelled!"

"Do you want to…to talk about it?" I finally ask, but Deirdre shakes her head miserably.

"Okay," I say, but before I can say anything else, she's dissolved into a fresh wave of tears and everything she'd meant to keep to herself she's telling me.

"I'm so—so _scared_," she sobs miserably, and I tentatively lay a hand on her head, stroking her hair like my mother always did to me. This is one thing I don't think I could mess up, this familiar gesture.

"I'm going to die! I can't die, I _can't_, I'm only sixteen! I'm not ready, and it's so unfair; I'll never finish school…never have a real job…never get married or have kids…it's all over and I haven't even _done_ anything yet!" She's starting to wheeze because she's crying so forcefully.

Still stroking her hair, I raise a hand to my eyes to wipe away my own tears. The words are sad enough, but what really breaks my heart is that I understand _exactly_ how she feels. To look ahead of you and see only death, only darkness: it's overpowering.

"I know how scared you are," I begin slowly, hoping against hope that I'm not making it worse, "but you can't give up. When I was in…in the arena, there were times when I wanted to give up. But I found…"

She's listening, her silent tears still coursing down her cheeks. "Found what?"

"I found it inside me…to keep going. If I didn't fight to get home, I would've given up, and I'd be dead."

Deirdre wipes her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. "But, Wiress," she sobs, "I can't do it. I can't be a killer. I'd never forgive myself." She looks at me questioningly, as if daring me to refute this.

I can't deny it. "You're right," I concede. "You'd never forgive yourself. But that's a choice you'll have to make. I can't tell you what to do. I can only help you survive as much…as much as you want me to."

I break off, wondering if this made any sense at all. Deirdre looks thoughtful. I can practically see her mind at work, gears turning behind the mask of her troubled face, weighing the alternatives. We sit in silence for a long time.

"_If_ I were going to try and win," she says at last, her voice heavy with hypotheticals, "then what advice would you give me? Just out of curiosity?"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I think back to the days before I went into the arena. What had I needed most? What was the best way I spent my time?

"Sleep," I say definitively. "You'll be exhausted in the arena, all the time. I know it's hard, but you've got to sleep. I'm sure Lucretia can give you something for it, if you can't fall asleep on…on your own." Normally, I'm not sure how I feel about sleeping pills—they made my head feel weird whenever I've taken them—but even drugged sleep is better than no sleep, and Deirdre needs every edge she can possibly get over the competition. The rest of my advice—most of which I have yet to come up with—can wait until she's rested.

"How do _you_ get to sleep?" she asks, and I hesitate for a moment, because that's something I'd rather not share with a sixteen-year-old girl I've just met.

"Depends," I say evasively, "tea helps." She nods, pulls herself under the covers, and I sit in the dark for a long time, stroking her hair until she seems to be sleeping. It's always worked for me.

I look at the face of the sleeping girl beside me. Asleep, her brows unfurrowed, she's no longer frowning. She looks peaceful. She looks _young_. And I feel totally inadequate in protecting her, this defenseless young girl, so in need of a mother and a bodyguard and a rock to build her hopes on, with me incapable of being any of these things.

Then, without a word, I tiptoe down the hall, past my own door and in through the next one, into a room that's absolutely silent and completely dark. Deirdre's not the only one who's going to have trouble sleeping tonight.

* * *

Beetee is fast asleep, the covers drawn up because he always feels the cold, his glasses abandoned on the bedside table. I tiptoe across the room and watch him for a moment, wondering if I should shake him awake. "Beetee," I whisper. He shows no signs of life. I should've known better; I've discovered that he can sleep through anything. As quietly as I can, I pull down the blankets and climb into bed beside him. Beetee mutters something indistinct in his sleep, but he doesn't wake up, so I settle myself on the pillow beside him and close my eyes. The reassuring feeling of someone sleeping beside me, someone I trust, lulls me nearer to sleep. I grab Beetee's hand where it rests on top of the covers. His fingers are cold, but I don't care. I squeeze his hand tight, reassuring myself that I'm not alone in this dark room, and I feel him squeeze my hand back, very slightly. He must be dreaming. _I hope it's a nice dream_, I think, as I close my eyes.

This is how I fall asleep back home these days. Once my father and Bolton moved back into the old apartment—my father liked being in a place that reminded him of Mom, and I think Bolton was simply afraid of being around the new me—I took to walking the empty rooms of my house at night, for the first time since I first came back from the Games. Whenever I _did_ manage to get myself in bed and drift off, I'd wake up screaming not long after.

At first, Beetee took to sleeping on my sofa so that he could come up to me if I woke up scared. Then, I offered him my guest room—it seems I have nothing _but_ spare rooms in this big empty house. Empty rooms in an empty house largely reminiscent of my mostly-empty life. My old friends never visit anymore. They're either too unsure of how to approach me or too scared.

Finally, one night, I woke up in terror the likes of which I can't adequately describe. I'd been dreaming of the arena again, reliving each of my kills in vivid cinematic detail, only this time the tributes refused to die and ganged up to take their revenge on me. A very violent, intensely _lifelike_ revenge. I believe I was holding my own bleeding kidneys in my hand at one point. When Beetee came in to find me crying hysterically, begging him to assure me that all my anatomy was still intact, he held me and stroked my hair and told me it was just a dream and that I was safe, but I flat out refused to close my eyes unless he climbed into bed beside me and did not leave until morning. If I knew one thing for certain, it was that he would not attempt to remove my kidneys as I slept.

There's nothing more to it than that, but sometimes I feel a little…guilty. Like we're doing something we shouldn't be doing, or at least like other people might get the wrong idea. Aside from the fact that I'm a murderer and an official government prostitute, my reputation's as good as anybody's. Either way, I don't want people gossiping and blowing things out of proportion. It occurs to me that maybe a tribute train containing two strange teenagers, Lucretia—the most incurable busybody in Panem—and a host of Capitol servants maybe isn't the best place to be having a sleepover, but I'm tired and I just know that I won't be able to face the dark of my room alone, so I banish these thoughts to the far reaches of my mind. I have enough to be concerned about.

* * *

_And...there we have it. Any thoughts on this year's tributes? We'll get to know them a bit better in upcoming chapters. _

_Fun fact: Wiress' observations about Beetee's quirks-his ability to sleep through anything and his oversensitivity to the cold-are drawn directly from my husband's observations of me. He's always saying how grateful he is that our apartment doesn't have access to a thermostat...because I'd probably have it set to 80, year-round. While writing Wiress' thoughts, I hope I came to understand Mr. Delilah's Husband's perspective a little better...one can dream..._

_Please review! It was a really bad day at work today, and I can really use something to cheer me up._

_Yours,_

_Delilah_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi, everyone! Back today with Chapter Six. Before we begin, I just want to thank my most recent reviewers, **NutsandVolts** and **SassyRedhead.** Thanks also go out to all of those following this story...I'd post a list but I'd rather get this chapter out before I have to start making dinner._

* * *

6

I wake up to the sound of a fairly loud gasp, the kind you give when you're seriously startled by something totally unexpected. Beetee's awake. He looks completely taken aback, squinting at me while simultaneously trying to figure out how and when I got here.

"Shh, it's me," I whisper, wondering if the introduction's necessary, because really, who _else_ would it be? But I'm not entirely sure how well he can see me, so I figure that there's no harm in reassuring him that he didn't have too much to drink and end up in bed with Lucretia or something.

"Wiress?" He sounds confused. I guess _I'd_ be confused if I went to sleep alone and woke up with company. "What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep," I reply, in what I hope is a pitiful-sounding voice. To be honest, I didn't actually _try_ sleeping in my own room by myself, but he doesn't need to know that particular detail.

"Why didn't you just…I don't know, wake me up, or something?" asks Beetee, reaching around me for his glasses. It's still kind of dark in here with the shades drawn, I'm blocking his reach and as a result, he's missing the bedside table by a good few inches, so I hand them to him.

"You were out cold. You're a really deep sleeper, did you know that?"

"No, I didn't. So how long have you been in here, anyway?"

I smile benignly. "All night. Seriously, you didn't even realize I came in?"

Blinking repeatedly to adjust to the bits of daylight making their way in through the shades, Beetee shakes his head. "No. And don't get me wrong, I love having you here first thing in the morning when I'm at my very best and all, but don't you think it'd be a good idea to hurry back to your room now? Don't want Lucretia to talk…" He trails off, muttering something about gossip.

"Oh, alright. She's probably going to come in to wake me up anyway; she did that every day…"

"…Last year. Well, you were a _tribute_ then, not a mentor, but I can't promise she won't try anyway, because she still does it to me sometimes," Beetee muses. He looks reminiscent for a moment, then smiles. "In fact, two years ago—it was her first year as our escort—I woke up to find Lucretia leaning over me, really close, alarmingly so, with this weird look on her face…well, you know Lucretia, would _you_ want to wake up to that, first thing in the morning? And then she jumps backwards and shrieks, 'Finally! Oh, my word, I thought you were _dead_!' and runs out of the room yelling to Gloria that I'm apparently still alive."

I can feel my eyes widening both in disbelief and in mirth at Beetee's affected imitation of Lucretia's silly Capitol accent. "She _didn't_?" I ask, grinning.

"She did. _Gloria_ thought it was really funny; _I_ personally think the shock took ten years off my life…" Beetee shakes his head as if wondering what's wrong with our escort, but he's smiling nonetheless. "Why she'd think I was _dead_, I'll never know…"

"I _told_ you," I chide, already halfway to the door, "you're a deep sleeper. _How_ you didn't get your throat cut in your sleep during your Games…" I slip out into the hall and shut the door quickly just as he throws his pillow at me. Honestly, isn't he supposed to be older and more mature and all?

"Wiress? Is that you?"

Damn, it's Lucretia, and I'm not in my room. Quickly, I run through all the possible excuses for wandering around the train in my pajamas that I can call to mind this early in the morning.

"I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep," I say softly, hoping she feels bad and doesn't ask me any nosy questions.

"Oh, you poor thing," she coos, though I'm not sure why; it's not like I told her the pitiful 'I-can't-sleep-in-that-dark-room-alone' story that constitutes most of the truth. I study her expression for a moment; without all the makeup, she looks almost unrecognizable. She watches me for a moment, as I contemplate what color her natural hair is underneath that odd-looking cap she's got on. Then she instantly brightens and chirps, "Well, it's just as well. It's going to be _such_ a busy day, you might as well get ready!" And without waiting to hear my response, she practically skips off to her room to put her face back on.

I stand there for a moment, stunned that anyone could be so chipper in the morning, then hurriedly duck into my own room and close the door. I throw myself on the bed and roll around a bit, messing up the crisp sheets. Then, I stand up to admire the effect. _There, that looks like I slept in it,_ I think with satisfaction. Actually, it looks like I had a pretty rough night, which suits me fine. I pull some underclothes from the drawers and head into the bathroom.

I'm no expert in using these Capitol showers, but I learned last time that arbitrarily pressing buttons is usually _not_ a good method to apply to them. Last time, I managed to get the water stuck on icy cold and nearly gave myself pneumonia. Who would _want_ a sub-zero shower, anyway? Why does that setting even exist? _It's the Capitol_, I remind myself, _maybe the same people who'd want tail implants or purple iridescent skin would enjoy a freezing cold shower._ Either way, I use caution while pressing the buttons, standing outside the shower and sticking my hand in to test the water before I actually climb in. There's nothing worse first thing in the morning than the shock of too-hot or too-cold water against your bare skin.

After playing around with the soap buttons to my heart's content and trying to see if I can come up with some sort of formula for the perfect shower that I can make use of for my entire Capitol stay (all while steering clear of the water temperature buttons), I step out and dry myself off. The Capitol underclothes I found in the drawers are a lot fancier than anything I have back home, trimmed in lace and decorated with sparkly stones and metallic thread, and I find myself wondering why anyone would wear something so pretty _under_ their clothes where no one would see it. I amuse myself in the mirror, admiring my reflection—now that I get enough to eat regularly, I suppose I'm not bad-looking—before I catch myself. _What are you doing, Wiress?_ asks the little voice of reason at the back of my head, the one that sometimes speaks in Electra's voice. _Where are you from, District One?_ For a minute, I'm ashamed that I'd be so shallow.

_Well,_ I reason with mental-Electra, _I need to make a good impression on the sponsors. It's the only way I can help these kids. I might as well dress the part._ There, now—that's a good reason, right?

Before the voice of reason can chide me that I most likely won't be trying to charm sponsors in my underwear (hopefully), I wander back into my room and open the closet. So many dresses to choose from…I think about what I'd just said to myself, about impressing the sponsors to win donations for our tributes, and suddenly which dress to wear becomes a big decision. I try on three before settling on one. Dark blue, with a straight skirt and white buttons…I'm no stylist, but I'm pretty sure I look fairly respectable and authoritative. No one's ever cared what I wore before winning the Games, so the knowledge that people will actually be paying attention is a whole new experience.

"Wiress! Are you ready for breakfast?"

Lucretia again. I wonder how she managed to be ready before me; surely her beauty routines must take hours? Incredulous, I step into a pair of low shoes and hurry out to the dining car before she can come looking for me.

Everyone else is already sitting at the table when I come in; I must've been having a little too much fun with the soap buttons and lost track of time. Deirdre, I'm pleased to see, looks reasonably well-rested…for a tribute, anyway. I guess she managed to stay asleep after I left her. Torque seems to be dragging a bit this morning, though, because his eyes are dull and he seems a little listless. Maybe I should sit with him for a while tonight.

"Did you sleep?" Beetee asks, buttering himself a roll. He could be directing this question to anyone but me. He already knows my answer.

"Yes," says Deirdre, with a slight edge to her voice that suggests surprise at this unexpected admission.

"Not really," confesses Torque. Beetee doesn't say anything, but pours a cup of coffee and hands it to him. "Careful, it's strong," he adds, pushing the milk and sugar across the tabletop.

"So…training," Torque begins, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face. "Ugh, how do you _drink_ this stuff?"

"It's an acquired taste," Beetee says simply. "And don't get too ahead of yourself. First thing that's going to happen when we arrive in the Capitol is we'll head to the Remake Center."

"There'll be cameras," I add, remembering the faces of the crowd, elbowing each other out of the way to get a good look at me and my district partner as we got off the train. Every one of them the same—first curious, then almost instantly bored.

"That's right, at the train station. They'll be broadcasting your arrival."

"You don't have to talk to them, though," I tell the tributes, because the idea of facing still _more_ cameras seems to have caught them a little off-guard, even though they've been watching the Games on TV all their lives.

"No, we'll get you into the car as fast as we can," Beetee promises. "But be prepared to face them, anyway. Think of the angle you're going for. Whatever it is, you need to project that for the cameras."

"Angle?" asks Deirdre uncertainly, "why can't I just be myself? I might not have much time left, and you want me to spend it pretending to be someone else?"

Beetee shakes his head. "No, of course not. Just remember that it's a _television show_. Those people in the Capitol, the ones with the money to sponsor tributes, they want more than just honesty. They want a good show."

"You need to get in their heads," I chime in. Deirdre and Torque turn to give me identical confused expressions, and I struggle to find the words to explain what I'm trying to say.

"I think they'd be more…likely…to sponsor you, that is…if they can't get you out of their heads," I explain. Beetee nods, apparently understanding some of this. "You want them to _remember_ you," he summarizes, and the tributes seem less confused. I wonder if I'm destined to confuse people with my garbled comments for the rest of my life.

We sit in silence for a little while, Torque attempting twice to sip the coffee, with little success.

"So," says Deirdre at last, breaking the silence that's as thick as custard. "An angle? That's—that's what we need, right? So…so what do _you_ think we should do?"

I look automatically at Beetee, because maybe I'm not the best person to ask about angles. After all, my so-called 'angle' last year was practically nonexistent. When I arrived in the Capitol, they scarcely paid me any mind at all. The television commentators skipped straight from their analysis of how many pounds District Two's boy could bench-press to their thoughts on the pair from Four. My district partner and I didn't even register, because as far as the viewers were concerned, we were the very definition of bloodbath tributes. It wasn't until I was crowned victor that they _really_ tried to get inside my head. The film editors in the Capitol who designed the television synopsis of my Games, the one I was forced to watch from the victor's throne, must have spent hours trying to create a story for me. They finally settled on presenting me as brilliant but eccentric, and as I watched the three-hour mandatory broadcast, I began to believe it myself. It plays through my mind as vividly as though it were airing live on the TV in the next room.

First come the obligatory clips of the reapings. I watch myself walking vaguely towards the stage, head in the clouds, dwelling on the fact that my life is over, stumbling on the steps and looking around in fright as the reality settles in on me. Then come shots of my arrival in the Capitol, looking around at the cameras wide-eyed. I appear in the footage of the tribute parade, waving shyly from the chariot in my gleaming dress of elaborately sculpted wire. "She looks like a shy one," comments the voice-over, "but so pretty in that fancy gown!"

My interview comes back to me, vibrant and clear and all too real. I sit between the monstrous boy from Two who I'd later kill and my trembling district partner, only fourteen and built like a toothpick. I'm dressed in a long silver gown that feels like I'm wearing water woven into fabric. It's richly ornamented with silver brocade woven in an elaborate lace pattern, and around my neck glimmers a necklace of precious stones that shimmer like dewdrops in the stage lights. It probably costs more than my family's home. I'm wringing my hands in my lap to mitigate some of my anxiety. Everything threatens to dominate my attention—the stage lights, the sparkling sequins that cover the District 4 tribute's mermaid-style dress, the faint buzzing of the sound system. I look up, around, out at the audience, then down at my lap, lost in thought as I try to figure out how to play the interview, to no avail. When District Two slouches back to his seat and I hear Caesar Flickerman calling my name, I snap out of my reverie reluctantly. My dazed, distracted expression is broadcast on giant screens for all to see. I hear the questions as though they're coming from the other end of a tunnel; I toy with a loose thread on my dress; Caesar comments jovially on my preoccupation, my overactive mind. He calls my name whenever I look unfocused and even snaps his fingers in front of my face, which would ordinarily strike me as being extraordinarily rude, but I'm too scared to care much. Throughout the entire interview, I've been fixating on how to stay alive for another few days, but later, when I see the footage on TV, I can finally see what they all saw from the beginning: that maybe I really _was_ an absent-minded prodigy of sorts. Or at least absent-minded.

So apparently I'd had an angle all along. Now it's my turn to come up for one for Deirdre, a persona that will capture the audience's imaginations and hearts and maybe win her some sponsors.

"Hello? Are you still listening?" Deirdre is peering avidly at me from across the table. Torque's looking skeptical about my supposed ability to mentor either of them, and Beetee's merely looking politely curious. At least none of them are snapping their fingers in my face.

"Something on your mind?" Beetee asks lightly, and I shake my head.

"Just…remembering," I explain, and he nods in understanding. I turn my attention instead to Deirdre.

"Your angle," I begin. "You're too small to be intimidating, so you have to play up your other strengths." I try to look knowledgeable and impressive as I finish, grateful to have sounded articulate for once, fearful that she'll realize I'm as lost as she is. She doesn't need to know that I haven't got a clue how to mentor a tribute, much less a potential victor.

"I don't have any strengths," Deirdre says in a small voice, barely more than a whisper. Beetee shakes his head, refusing to believe it.

"Everyone has strengths," he says dismissively. "Do you have a job? Something you do outside school? Or a hobby?" Deirdre looks thoughtful, casting her mind around for something she can use.

"I don't know," she says stubbornly. "I don't have a job; I take care of my little sister when I get home from school. My mom and dad—they don't want to leave her alone, you see?"

"How are your grades?" I ask, thinking we could perhaps spin Deirdre the way they presented me.

"Average," she responds dully. I'm losing hope, but Beetee's looking at Deirdre as though he's seeing her in a whole new light.

"Let your hair down," he says suddenly, and Deirdre's brow furrows in a state of confusion I know I share. She reaches back and pulls the rubber band from her hair, sending her long, brown curls tumbling around her shoulders.

"Very nice—I think we can work with this," says Beetee, almost to himself. He seems to realize that we're not following what he's thinking.

"Isn't she pretty?" Beetee asks me, and I'm surprised by the question, because it's the last thing on my mind. But I'm starting to see the direction Beetee's plan is taking, and I'm grasping at it desperately.

"The best-looking tributes…" I say, giving voice to my thoughts.

"…Get the most sponsors," Beetee finishes for me, and I know at that moment that we're of one mind. Cleaned up, dressed in fine clothes, Deirdre will surely grab her share of attention in the Capitol. She's prettier than me, that's for sure, because while we're both certainly small, Deirdre looks less undernourished than I did, with better hair and more dramatic features. But I don't feel remotely jealous of this, because thanks to Beetee, I have the beginnings of a plan.

Beetee looks like he's moved on to the next topic. He's turned to Torque, and neither of us needs much time or effort to come up with a story for this tall, strong-looking boy.

"Now _you_, on the other hand," he begins, looking to me for confirmation. I nod, because I know exactly where he's going with this and I flash back to Torque, in his work uniform, at the automotive factory.

"_You_ can work the big-and-powerful angle in a way that she can't," Beetee remarks. "I've seen you at the automotive factory," I add, and Torque looks surprised. "You get around the factories a lot?" he asks airily. "My father works there," I reply, because his tone is a little too flippant for someone in mortal peril. It sounds almost as if he's implying I'm a different person now that I'm a victor; the kind of person who loses touch with her roots and abandons her old self in favor of Capitolean decadence. The kind of person who forgets what real life is like.

"You might even stand to compete with the Careers," Beetee continues, and I can see a faint glimmer of pride in Torque's expression. "The audiences will _love_ that, the outsider beating the favorites at their own game."

The scenery outside the window is changing. It won't be long before we're in the Capitol. Once we get there, we'll be fighting tooth and nail for these tributes' lives, trying to bring one of them home. But somehow, I'm a lot calmer about this than I'd been back in District Three, because at least now I know what direction we're moving in.

* * *

_Fun fact of the day: one of my sisters (the 'pretty one' in the family, supposedly) inspired Deirdre's angle. She mentioned that, were she a tribute, she'd simply try to overawe the sponsors with how pretty she is and thus win their sympathy. I wish her lots of luck on that one. _

_And so, we reach the Capitol at last! I wonder what awaits us there. Certainly we'll get to know many of the tributes a lot better in the upcoming chapters, as well as several of their mentors. Who knows, we may even run across some familiar faces._

_And, of course, it wouldn't be a chapter-ending AN if I didn't request that you review. So...please do so. Be back either tomorrow or Monday with Chapter 7...in which we discover what happens elsewhere while the tributes are in the Remake Center and we meet some of this year's mentors as they view the tribute parade! Should be fun._

_Yours,_

_Delilah_


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7 awaits! Who knows what sort of surprises (of both the good and bad varieties) the Capitol may have in store for us. I won't keep you long, just want to thank those who reviewed Chapter Six (NutsandVolts) and those who have recently followed/favorited/acknowledged this story in some way/shape/form. Your feedback makes me happy, simply put._

* * *

7

It's midafternoon. The tributes have been in the Remake Center for several hours, and I don't know what to do with myself. We're separated from the tributes on the very steps of the Remake Center; they're led off and subjected to who _knows_ what sort of torturous beauty routines, while we're pulled to the side by a reporter and assaulted with a barrage of rapid-fire questions.

"Just between us," pipes up the reporter, a rather feminine-looking man wearing blue glitter lipstick and a jacket made of feathers that makes him look like an overlarge bird, "what would you say about the chances of this year's tributes from District Three?"

I stare into the cameraman's light, blinded and dazed. Beetee, however, steps in and addresses the birdman.

"I'd say their chances are very good. I don't want to give away too much, but let's just say that there's more to our tributes than meets the eye this year."

The birdman beams, thrilled at the prospect of a secret, of some television-worthy drama. "Oh, surely you won't leave us in the dark, right?" He turns to me, his heavily-mascaraed eyes pleading for more information. But before I can so much as shake my head in response, the reporter changes tack at the speed of light.

"So, Wireless," he begins, stepping right up next to me and shoving a microphone in my face.

"It's _Wiress_, actually…"

"Whatever. _Wiress_, then—anything you want to share with the audience at home about your first mentoring stint? How does it feel to be back in the Capitol? Are you looking forward to meeting the other victors? And what about your tributes? Think you'll bring home yet _another_ victor this year? Is Three primed for a winning streak?" All of this comes out extraordinarily fast.

"I…well, I…" I'm saved from answering by the arrival of this year's mentors from District One right behind us. The birdlike reporter flies to their side as quickly as he'd appeared at ours, and Beetee gestures frantically for me to follow him before the reporter comes back. He waves inexplicably at the stream of gleaming cars gliding down the street and, to my surprise, one stops. We get inside, checking over our shoulders to ensure that the reporter is still engrossed with District One.

"Where to?" asks the driver. "Training Center," Beetee replies. In comparative silence, we glide down the street towards the City Circle. In a matter of minutes, I can see the tall shadow of the Training Center looming ahead. Nearby stands President Snow's mansion. I look pointedly in the opposite direction. I don't need any reminder of the last time I'd been there.

The car slows to a stop right in front of the Training Center. Beetee pays the driver and thanks him, and he speeds away, leaving us on the curb. A few mentors are making their way inside; I recognize some of them from TV. A couple of people who look to be from the Capitol are asking some victor I believe to be from Eleven for an autograph. We hurry past before anyone can notice us.

"Did we really need to pay a driver just to take us...?" I begin, wondering if the victor's life has made Beetee lazy, whether it's destined to happen to all of us at some point.

"Would you prefer to have walked?" Beetee asks, genuinely considering the option. "There'd be pointing. And staring. We'd probably be stopped a few times. Oh, and your new friend? I wouldn't put it past him to follow us with his microphone and his cameraman, to get an interview..."

"Point taken," I concede.

* * *

The elevator ride up to the third floor brings back tons of memories, most of them unpleasant. I feel like I left my stomach behind on the ground as it speeds upward and then slams to a rapid halt on level 3 before it can really get into its stride. The entire floor is deserted, except for the occasional Avox, and it's slightly eerie.

"Where's Lucretia?" I ask uncertainly. Beetee looks around, looking surprised not to see her. "She should be along any minute now," he replies. It's a full three hours before she arrives, but neither of us care much. We've spent the time playing cards in the living room. I've won seventeen games.

"What do we do now?" I ask Beetee dully. I'm mentally exhausted, battling through the emotions of the day, and slowly coming to the realization that I have no clue whatsoever what the mentors do while the tributes are being assaulted by their prep teams.

Beetee raises his eyebrows. "First, I suggest you eat something—"

"Didn't we just have breakfast?"

"_That_ was this morning and besides, you barely ate anything. What I was saying was that you'd better eat something because before you know it, _your_ stylist'll be along to get you ready for the opening night festivities."

I let out a barely audible squeak. I didn't know my stylist was involved in my latest journey to the Capitol.

"_Why_?" I finally manage to ask. Beetee smiles, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Because we need to be dressed up nice in case we meet up with any potential sponsors," he replies. "We're always on call. Always. And it's up to us to make a good impression, just as much as the tributes. Don't you think we owe it to them?" he adds, and I nod reluctantly, because although I want to do all I can to save one of our tributes' lives, I wish I could do it in my own clothes.

Over at the empty dining room table, Lucretia makes a jealous noise of sorts. "I wish _I_ got a stylist," she huffs, and it takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to say, "Take mine!"

As if on cue, the front door swings open to reveal Felix, my stylist, in all his vaguely metallic glory. "Darling!" he croons, and Beetee stifles a laugh. I could shove him for finding this funny at all. Instead, I paste a smile on my face, like I'm as delighted to see Felix as he apparently is to see me…most likely because I made him famous. I doubt he remembers the names of any of the female tributes who preceded me. In fact, I doubt he even remembers _Deirdre's_ name.

"Felix, hi…" I say weakly, as he strides buoyantly across the room, like he's got springs in the balls of his feet. He circles me like some overgrown bird of prey and I'm reminded irresistibly of the feathery, birdlike reporter. Forcing my concentration back to Felix, I vaguely detect him saying something about how he's betting I've put on weight (like that's a tragedy or something) and about how excited he is to dress me again.

* * *

I'm led off to my room, where the prep team subjects me to an assortment of beauty treatments that are mercifully briefer and less traumatic than last year's had been. Felix explains this, like he read the question that crossed my mind. "Oh, you'll only be in the viewing box," he says glumly, "so we'll save _the works_ for Interviews, alright? Then we can _really_ go to town!" I shudder, thinking of what 'the works' entails, of what 'town' it is we're going to, and I repeat Beetee's comment about the tributes and how they deserve my best effort over and over in my head like a mantra. _It's all well and good for _him_ to say so,_ I think bitterly, _he's probably not having his legs waxed right now._

Felix apparently is a bit of a one-note wonder as far as my wardrobe is concerned. He'd been such a hit last year, with his dramatic cinch-waisted gown, that now every single dress he designs for me incorporates the same hourglass silhouette. What I wouldn't give for something shapeless and flowy, for a change! _It must be nice to breathe_, I think wistfully.

Thankfully, tonight's dress code isn't formal, so no gown for me; no yards of material tripping me on the stairs. The hem of Felix's new dress hits an inch or two below my knees, from what I can see in the full-length mirror he's steered me in front of. Looking down, I can't see my feet because they're obscured under a vast quantity of swinging skirts, held out with voluminous petticoats.

"Do any of the other women wear dresses like this?" I ask mildly, privately thinking that I must look like some sort of poofy Capitol dessert, like a soufflé or an iced cupcake.

"Darling, don't you know, you've started a _trend_!" Felix simpers. "_All_ the most fashionable ladies in the Capitol are wearing their skirts like this ever since you won your Games!"

Great. So I'll be an iced cupcake with a horde of imitators.

"Don't forget the shoes, dear," he adds, and when I protest that I can't _see_ my feet, much less put shoes on them, Felix sighs in mock exasperation and helps me step into a pair of shoes of indeterminate color. I feel myself grow a good three inches.

I study my reflection in the mirror and decide that it's a lot easier to recognize myself, even all done up, than it had been during the Victory Tour. Even with the lipstick and eyeliner and several pounds of taffeta petticoats, I still look pretty much like me. It's a comforting thought.

"—Going to be _late_!" comes a high-pitched screech from somewhere outside my door. Felix checks his watch, squeaks in surprise, and literally sprints out the door, calling something over his shoulder about getting back to the Remake Center to put the final touches on Deirdre before the parade starts. Slightly dazed, I follow him out to the main room, wobbling slightly in the unfamiliar shoes. I make a rustling sound as I walk.

Beetee and Lucretia are standing in the entryway, in front of the door. Lucretia's positively writhing in excitement and frustration that she's stuck waiting for us two. "Are you ready _now_?" she asks impatiently, and I nod mutely, wondering what on Earth she's so worked up about. It's not like _she's_ got any real stakes in these Games.

Beetee's staring at me like he's been asked to memorize my features. "What?" I ask, wondering if he's planning on painting a portrait or something. He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says dismissively, "you just look really nice."

"Let's _go_," hisses Lucretia, gesturing wildly at the door, and mostly to shut her up, we walk past her and hit the button for the elevator. It's a minute or two before it arrives, and when the doors open, I see a small crowd of people already inside.

"Oh! Maybe we should…" I begin, trying to point out that the stairs might be a better idea, or maybe waiting for the elevator to return.

"Don't be silly, honey, there's enough room," comes the reply before I can even finish my sentence. The speaker is a middle-aged woman—I'd place her around fortyish—dressed in a fine tailored skirt and blouse, with black hair swept up into an elegant bun. She's got olive skin and hazel eyes that seem to sparkle, even in the dim light of the elevator. I ask myself if I've seen her before, if I can put a name to the face that seems vaguely familiar.

The three of us squeeze into the elevator, my voluminous skirts getting a little crushed in the press of people. The woman extends a hand through the crowd and grasps mine. "I'm Seeder," she says brightly, "from District Eleven."

"Wiress," I reply, caught a little off-guard that anyone wants to talk to _me_, "District Three."

"Yes, I know, it's not too long ago I saw you when you visited my district," Seeder continues pleasantly as the elevator halts suddenly at ground level and I squeeze my eyes shut involuntarily. We all file out, and she takes my arm and continues talking, like we're taking a leisurely stroll. Lucretia bustles past us importantly.

"You did?" I ask in surprise, because I don't recall meeting any victors on the Tour. I look towards Beetee for confirmation.

"She was probably in the crowd," Beetee says, once again correctly interpreting my thoughts. "Victors aren't really supposed to…you know, talk or anything…on the Tour, that is."

"Why?" I ask blankly, because it's not like we'll never meet each other, is it?

Beetee sighs, his face betraying his incredulity at the reasoning behind it. "We're supposed to be from different districts and all. It wouldn't do to have us socializing on TV, for all Panem to see." His tone is hollow, like he'd rather not quote the party line, but doesn't have much of a choice.

"So," Seeder says, leaning in closer and making a clear effort to change the subject. She lowers her voice about an octave and continues, "How are you feeling? Are you…doing okay?" The concern in her eyes tells me she's not just inquiring about my health.

"Well," I begin because _I'm_ not even entirely sure I'm okay, so I have no idea what to say to this woman I've met maybe only three minutes ago.

"Just about as 'okay' as can be expected," Beetee says by way of explanation, and Seeder nods and squeezes my hand warmly.

"Well, if you need _anything_—anything at all—don't you hesitate to ask, now," she says with a genuine smile, and I can't help smiling myself at her kindness.

All this time we've been walking along the street constituting the circumference of the City Circle until now, when we've arrived at a set of stairs. Beetee steps back and indicates that Seeder should go first; she inclines her head gracefully in thanks and sweeps up the stairs. Beetee nods at me and I follow her.

We're seated in a viewing box at the end of the parade route. Each velvet-upholstered chair is marked with a district number, arranged in three rows of eight. Seeder takes her seat in the back row; Beetee points me towards the very first row and we file in awkwardly, stepping over the mentors from Four. One of them, a young woman with astonishingly beautiful green eyes, frowns at me.

"Watch your step," she grumbles as my rustling taffeta petticoats snag on her armrest. _Oh, Felix, _I think, _bad wardrobe choice for a crowded box…_

"Hello, Thetis," Beetee says civilly, "Nice to see you, too. Have you met Wiress?"

The woman, Thetis, merely nods curtly, and I can see I haven't exactly made myself a lifelong friend here. Beetee nudges me forward and I continue to the empty seats set aside for District Three. I settle into the further of the two, as Beetee has very chivalrously taken the seat beside Thetis. I can't tell which of them looks less thrilled about this.

The view from here is outstanding. I can see the crowds below, positively writhing in excitement, waiting for the tributes to make their entrance. Camera crews are setting up their equipment at strategic locations, and as I watch a reporter clad in a glittery silver dress interview members of the crowd, yet another camera crew makes its way up the stairs.

"Hello, mentors!" the cameraman calls out brightly, drawing every pair of eyes in the box over to him. He's wearing plaid pants with a striped top, his entire outfit clashing brilliantly, and my eyes are hurting just looking at him as he sets up his tripod and gets his camera ready.

"What's _he_ doing up here?" I whisper to Beetee, leaning in close so as not to seem completely clueless, or rude.

"He's going to want to see our reactions to the tributes," Beetee replies expertly. "Our own as well as each other's. Try not to get too worked up over the other districts' tributes, okay? Keep it in until we get back."

"Even if they're huge?" I ask, only half jokingly.

"_Especially_ if they're huge," Beetee replies with a smile. "No use giving them the advantage of knowing that even their competition's _mentors_ are afraid of them, right?"

"Program?" asks a thin voice from somewhere behind me, and the two of us turn around to see a skinny young woman with long, lavender hair holding out a couple of glossy-covered booklets.

"Thank you," says Beetee, taking both and handing me one. I flip it open to see all the tributes' names and ages, listed in district order. There's a list of pre-Games festivities: first the Tribute Parade and President Snow's speech, followed by some nonsense regarding betting etiquette and a list of famous pre-Games parties before we get to the part about airing of the training scores. Then there's even more festive nonsense separating the date and time of the scores broadcast and that of the interviews, and then a final list of the most prestigious interview-night parties before the notation on the time of the actual Games.

"And, here—" the woman adds, jerking me out of my study of the pamphlet. She's holding out a pair of small, ornate silver binoculars towards me, which I take uncertainly. I look at Beetee for an explanation.

"To get a better look at the tributes," he says shortly, pointing to the man from Five, who's apparently testing his out on the crowd below, laughing as he studies their bizarre-looking faces. "I think I found one with a _tail!_" he crows, and Thetis scowls. Apparently you can't even make a joke in her presence.

"Coming through, make way, that's it," comes a gruff voice from down the other end of the row, and I see a huge, bulky young man pushing his way rather carelessly towards the empty seats near me, with all the grace of a Peacekeeper in the public market.

"Watch it, Brutus, you big oaf!" squeals Thetis in disgust, and Beetee winces as the bulky-looking man—Brutus, was it?—kicks him in the shin or something as he forces his way past.

"What?" Brutus asks, turning around to face Thetis, her expression stony with disapproval. "I've gotta get through, don't I? My seat's all the way down this end, isn't it? What d'you want me to do, _fly?_"

"Show up earlier, maybe," snarls Thetis, and everyone's gone quiet, anticipating a fight. _And here I am, seated right in the middle of it,_ I muse miserably. _I wonder how much it would hurt if Brutus shoved me over the railing in a rage, trying to get at Thetis…_

"Could you maybe save your fight for later—say when my district partner and I are _not_ sitting between you?" chimes in Beetee suddenly, and both former Careers turn to glare at him instead. But neither of them replies, both sitting down silently, fuming. Brutus takes the empty seat beside me and starts turning the pages in his program almost violently. I stare blankly at an advertisement for a wig cleaning service as though it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen, hoping not to draw anyone's attention. Gradually, a low level of talk breaks out amongst the other victors again.

"Are you crazy?" I whisper, leaning in so close to Beetee that I'm practically sitting on his lap. "He's huge; he could've killed us both with his bare hands!"

"He's not going to _kill_ us," Beetee challenges, "sometimes you just have to remind the Careers that it's not all about them."

"Well, could you maybe do so when we're on the _ground_, next time?" He laughs as I say this, and I'm trying really hard to fight smiling, because I was really frightened there for a minute, but he's got one of those laughs that's infectious. And besides, the realization that I'm not going to be hurled to my death has got me practically lightheaded with relief.

Before he can answer me, music booms out of nowhere. "Look, it's starting," Beetee says, and I lean forward in my seat in spite of myself, because even if the reason for all the fanfare is a completely despicable one, you have to hand it to the Gamemakers—they know how to put on a show.

* * *

_And so we've encountered some familiar faces, I see! In our next update, we'll get to watch the actual parade and get a better look at some of the tributes. Let me know your thoughts on today's chapter, though, when you have a spare minute (in other words, please review!) I promise your reviews have a positive impact on my decision on how soon to update..._

_In the meantime, for all you football fans, happy Super Bowl Sunday! My team didn't make it, but that doesn't mean it won't be a good game. _

_Cheers,_

_Delilah_


	8. Chapter 8

_Updating quick tonight, readers, because I only just got home from work, got to get dinner on the table and then get down to the business of grading a stack of papers about a foot high. I won't keep you. As I mentioned yesterday, we get our first really good look at the tributes this time around._

* * *

8

It's a while before the first chariot makes its way into view. After all, City Circle is the very end of the parade route. In the meantime, I gaze around at the overexcited crowd—does it matter to them that nearly all of these children will soon be dead? On the presidential balcony, President Snow sits with the most senior Gamemakers and some important government people I don't recognize, though I think I may have slept with one. I look purposefully away. The tributes are approaching, at last, anyway. Cameras start flashing like mad and the crowd's already loud cheers build up into a steady roar.

The tributes from District One are waving energetically to the crows. The boy's tall and handsome, with chiseled good looks, but the girl comes as a bit of a surprise. District One girls are, as a rule, stunningly beautiful, but this girl—not so much. Her stylist's made her very striking to look at, draping her in luxurious furs like an exotic animal, but below the finery, she's got a forgettable face and a slightly lumpy figure. I didn't even know being less than conventionally attractive was _permitted_ in One.

The tributes from Two are less of a surprise to me. They're both thick and heavily-muscled, dusted with chalky powder to resemble classical statuary—masonry, I suppose. I try to estimate, from a distance, just how big their hands are. I'm positive either of them could easily crush me, that's for sure, and I'm supremely grateful not to be going into the arena to face them. The boy—_Mica_, my program informs me—pounds his fist threateningly into the palm of his hand, glares out at the crowd, and they eat it up. Beside me, Brutus is hooting with glee, cheering his tribute on.

I'm so busy watching Mica attempt to intimidate the spectators, wondering if this is an idiotic strategy or an ingenious one, when I remember that our district comes next. I lean forward, rest my hands on the railing, and crane my neck to get a good look at the next pair of tributes.

Torque comes into view first; he's a whole head taller than Deirdre and he's fairly easy to spot in a crowd. His face is set in determination; he looks out at the crowd with an almost superior air, the slightest of smiles peeking through, as though he knows the secret of success and he's debating whether to share it with the rest of us. He looks powerful and confident and the more or less persistent feeling of anxiety that's plagued me since the start of this year's festivities seems to abate a bit as it strikes me that this boy stands a fighting chance. I glance down at the Capitol crowd. They look shocked, as though their programs mistakenly assigned a real fighter to cannon-fodder District 3.

Deirdre looks small beside Torque, but this isn't the first thought that registers when I look at her. No, the first thought that crosses my mind when I lay eyes on my tribute for the first time since we abandoned her to the prep teams is how breathtakingly beautiful she is. Her long, brown curls have been left loose and they cascade behind her as the chariot moves forward. Felix has dressed her in a slinky strapless dark dress—I can't tell from here if it's gray or black—inlaid with an elaborate pattern reminiscent of a printed circuit board assembly. The design is wrought in shimmering silver thread, sequins and tiny jewels. The dress clings to every curve of Deirdre's body, making her look older than her sixteen years, and much more sophisticated than her quotidian upbringing back home in Three would suggest. Her creamy bare shoulders seem to glow against the darkness of the dress and her long curtain of rich hair, and her face looks like an exquisite mask of flawless marble, set in a serene expression, one eyebrow slightly arched in benign interest. The crowd is drinking her in, the sight of her beauty, and their cheers grow louder. Between my victory and this year's pair of crowd-pleasing tributes, District Three, it seems, has finally found a following. Maybe someday we'll have T-shirts.

I glance over at Beetee, who's having trouble concealing his elation behind a mask of polite interest. "They look great together, don't they? She really cleans up well."

I nod fervently, hoping with every fiber of my being that some of these people below us are rich, that they're so smitten with our tributes that they won't be able to resist sponsoring them.

I find it hard to concentrate on the rest of the parade, in the aftermath of our tributes' successful entrance—the first truly successful entrance District Three's had as far back as I can remember—but I try, for their sakes. The pair from Four is very nice to look at, but I still cast a superior glance down at Thetis, because she seems like the type who writes us off as beneath her notice, and I want her to see that I consider my tribute every bit as good as hers. Besides, her tribute isn't exactly playing to the crowd; she looks cold and arrogant even from this distance. It's a surprise, because she's got the innocent face of a harmless young girl…and yet, her ice-queen persona doesn't have the artificial look of a made-up strategy. It looks like it's an expression she's donned many a time before. Thetis' eyes narrow at me in acknowledgement that perhaps _here_, a rivalry is beginning to play out.

The pair from Seven is dressed as trees. They were trees last year, too, come to think of it…in fact, I can't remember the last time Seven's tributes _weren't_ encased in those hideous tree costumes. One of them has assorted (shockingly ugly) fake birds perched on the branches. I think that one's the girl. The boy, only twelve years old, has tears streaming down his face. Nothing—not the cheering of the crowd, not the knowledge that he has to impress the viewers if he wants to survive, not even his own pride—seems to stop him from openly crying every minute of the ride to City Circle.

The costumes from District Eight look like a knitting machine somewhere blew up. I silently thank the powers-that-be that Felix—foolish and shallow as he may be—apparently has _some_ functional brain cells, unlike some of these other stylists, especially the one who apparently decided to dress the tributes from Eight as skeins of yarn or something. The boy from Eight has delicate features, almost like a girl's, and I catch myself before I compare him to the feminine Capitol reporter. I recognize the girl from the reaping recaps. Back then, I'd thought she'd looked clever, like she was planning something. I try to unravel her plan as I watch her wave jovially at the crowds. Eight usually stands about the same chance as Three in the Games, so her ebullient waving must have some motive behind it.

Nine, Ten, Eleven. The boy tribute from Nine looks thoughtful, like he's dwelling on something even as he stands before the crowd. He's scanning the faces that line the streets as though searching for someone, though it's anyone's guess as to who. Even his district partner looks puzzled by this.

The boy from Ten is frowning. Even from a distance, I can tell that his jaw is clenched so tightly, it's a wonder he hasn't cracked any of his teeth. His hands are clenched into fists, his arms held stiffly at his sides. His rancher's costume—inexplicably adorned in sequins—hangs unflatteringly on his rigid frame. He looks like he's trying desperately to convince every man, woman and child in Panem that he's not a coward. The only person he's failing to convince, it seems, is himself.

The girl from District Eleven comes as a surprise—tall and strong, with long, agile legs. Last year's tributes from Eleven both looked starved. She's got skin like polished mahogany and eyes so dark you can't tell where the iris ends and the pupil begins. Crowned with berries and fresh fruit, she inclines her head regally in acknowledgement of the crowd, reminding me irresistibly of her mentor. I check my program. Amaryllis. It's a pretty name. I wonder if it means something in her district. Her district partner stands awkwardly a few inches away. He has none of her presence, none of her effortless dignity, that's for sure. In fact, though I hate to admit it, the poor boy has nothing memorable about him at all, much like the girl from One.

The girl from Twelve is wearing a coal miner's costume—at least I _think_ it's supposed to be a coal miner, but somehow I doubt actual miners dress this way, because it's so skimpy I'm pretty sure I see less of my body in the shower than what we're seeing of Miss District Twelve. She looks mortified. I'm embarrassed _for_ her, the poor thing. Curiously, her district partner appears to be trying to shield her from the Capitol's gaze, as much as he can. I wonder what _that's_ about. Most of the other tributes are deftly ignoring their district partners.

The last chariot passes us and comes to a halt and it's another minute before we're treated to giant televised images of President Snow, standing behind his flag-draped podium. He looks small from here in person, but his image, projected on the massive screens around the City Circle, is larger-than-life. He beams out at the tributes; it's a cold, crafty smile that reminds me of a predator trying to lure in its prey. He opens his mouth to speak and I immediately drop my gaze to my lap and begin rifling through my program again. The last time I heard that icy voice in person, it was threatening the lives of my family and friends if I didn't agree to sell myself to the highest bidder. I feel my cheeks burning and wonder if anyone suspects the painful mental struggle that's taking place inside my head right now.

_I can't hear you,_ I think to myself, _I'm not listening. Take that, President Snow. I'm still safe from you inside my mind._

"Wiress?"

I look up. Beetee's staring at me, looking torn between confusion and concern. "Are you okay?" he asks, and my reply of "I'm fine," is a little too quick to be believable.

"Then will you _move_ already?" comes another voice, a harsh-sounding one from behind me. What's-his-name from District Two is standing there, thick arms folded, looking very impatient.

"We're waiting, Three, we don't have all night!" he scoffs, and I leap to my feet as the image of myself being sent flying into the crowd by this bad-tempered giant pops into my head. Unfortunately, I jump up a little too fast, stumble in my new shoes, and fall back into the chair in a heap of crinolines. District Two lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I think Three's been _drinking,"_ he mock-whispers. His district partner glares at him, grabs my hand, and pulls me down the steps behind him.

"What's his problem?" I ask irritably as we weave through the crowds. Beetee shrugs his shoulders dismissively. "He's not the most patient person I've ever met…or the most polite, for that matter," he says.

"I can't remember his name," I confess with a slight smile, and Beetee laughs outright. A woman walking in front of us, who's wearing a large artificial butterfly with flapping wings in her blue hair, turns around to see what's so funny.

"He'd just _love_ that—Brutus seems to think he's more important than the rest of us mere mortals…just because he singlehandedly killed ten tributes, or something like that."

The mention of the man's name jolts my memory back into functioning again. "Brutus! That's it…don't know why it didn't stick," I say, mostly to myself. Beetee looks puzzled.

"Stick?"

"In my head. A lot of things don't stick, anymore."

We walk in silence for a moment, trying to beat the chariots into the Training Center. It's not an easy trip, though, because the Capitol crowds are still gathered, watching the tributes' last trip around the Circle, and we have to pick our way through the throngs of people bit by bit. They're pretty much all taller than us.

Somehow, we make it back just as the first pairs of tributes are arriving. Torque jumps down from the chariot and strides right over towards us; Deirdre, on the other hand, looks apprehensive about climbing down from a recently-moving vehicle pulled by massive horses. We have no horses in Three. Beetee looks at me, then follows my line of sight to Deirdre, trying to climb down in her slinky dress, and walks right over to her. He extends a hand and helps her down. "Thanks," says Deirdre breathlessly, before turning to me. "Did you see me out there? Was I—was I good?"

"You were _perfect_," I say with a smile, delighted that I've found the right thing to say for once. Deirdre beams.

The elevator ride upstairs to the third floor is a considerably lighter atmosphere than that first one this morning had been. The tributes look pleased with their performance—still nervous, but a little more confident about their chances. Lucretia is oozing praise about how _regal_ and _intriguing_ they looked. Beetee is smiling and, amazingly, so am I. I didn't think I'd be able to smile at the Hunger Games if my life had depended on it.

* * *

Deirdre falls asleep almost instantly after dinner, much to my surprise. Remembering how long it took her to calm herself enough to fall asleep last night, it's almost a relief to peek in through her door and hear her deep, easy breathing. I don't know what the prep team did to her, but it must have been exhausting.

Torque looks exhausted, subsisting on two days with minimal sleep and maximum stress, so when he collapses on the sofa where we've turned on the recap of the Tribute Parade, Beetee and I exchange glances. He turns down the volume on the TV and I dim the lights. By the end of the broadcast, Torque is stretched out between us on the sofa, snoring quietly.

"Did you put sedatives in their food or something?" Beetee asks in a whisper. Still amazed, I shake my head in denial. "I guess the…the emotions of the past few days…"

"Took a toll on them? Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, I guess it's best for them to be good and rested for training tomorrow," he concedes, and I find myself nodding in agreement.

Lucretia chooses this moment to sweep through, all decked out in an elaborate greenish feathered dress. She looks like a peacock. "Well, I'm off," she announces to no one in particular. "I got an invitation to _the_ pre-pre-Games party of the year! I can't _wait_; I'll tell you all about it!" And without waiting for either of us to comment or even wish her a good time, she bounds out the door and pounds the button for the elevator.

"Let's lock her out," Beetee whispers mischievously as he covers Torque with a blanket, and I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from waking Torque with my laughter.

"But seriously, do you think you'll be alright tonight? Think you can sleep?" Beetee asks me. My eyes widen in consideration of this unlikely possibility. Silently, I cross to the door of Gloria's room—_my room_, I remind myself—and linger in the doorway. The room's shadowy and feels distinctly _not mine_.

"Go on," says Beetee from somewhere behind me, "give it a try."

Reluctantly, I walk to the bathroom, wash my face and strip off the layers of clothes in exchange for some comfortable pants and a shirt. It feels good to be free of all that extra fabric; I had felt like I'd gained ten extra pounds. Cautiously, like I'm lowering myself into a scalding hot bath, I climb into bed and pull up the covers. Beetee appears in the doorway, watching my progress.

"What do you think?" he asks conversationally, as though asking my opinion of the weather.

"I'm scared," I reply in little more than a whisper. "I don't want to be…be alone. Couldn't you just stay until…?"

"Until you fall asleep. I figured as much," Beetee says, and for a moment it occurs to me that maybe he's annoyed at me, not giving him five minutes' peace, not even at night.

"Never mind, you don't…don't have to…I'll be…" In my rush to acquit Beetee of any guilty obligation towards me and my sleep habits, I can barely get my point across.

Beetee, however, sits down on the edge of the bed beside me. "Don't be ridiculous," he says softly, "Of course I'll stay. I just figured you might want some time to get used to it…your new room, that is. Move over a little."

I don't come out and say it, but I'm very grateful. I think Beetee knows this, though, as he leans back against the headboard and takes my hand. Even without words, he's pretty good at understanding me.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed tonight's update. Now, my question for you readers: who's your early prediction to win this thing? Or did I even bother to point out the winner? I'd love to know who you're betting on at this stage of the game. Or, you know, just general thoughts. _

_Also: please review (in case I haven't said it enough before)_

_All the best, _

_Delilah_


	9. Chapter 9

_I apologize for letting a few days go by without any word of an update. I'm buried in grad school __paperwork at the moment, though perhaps a little feedback from my readers could motivate me to get a move on..._

_Thank you to those who read ch. 8; a bigger thank-you to those that reviewed or favorited. _

* * *

9

I fall asleep listening to the sounds of traffic coming from the city below. The next thing I know, daylight is streaming in through the wide windows. I look around the room, trying to get my bearings.

_You're in the Capitol,_ I tell myself. _In the Training Center. Training sessions start today._

Beetee's still here, in his usual early-morning comatose state. He seems to have fallen asleep sitting up beside me, leaning back against the headboard of my bed, still wearing his glasses, which have shifted crookedly off to the side. I wonder how anyone could manage to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position, but if _anyone_ could manage it, Beetee could. I debate poking him to see if he wakes up, but I realize this is pointless. Instead, I climb out of bed and cover him with my blanket, then wander off to find something to wear.

Torque and Deirdre look markedly different from last night. They're both dressed very sensibly in plain pants and shirts, Deirdre's long hair tied back in a low ponytail. She looks a lot less dramatic without her gown and makeup…and a lot more vulnerable.

"So, do you have any…any special directions for us today, or anything?" she asks tentatively.

"Um, well, you should…try to work on your survival skills, certainly," I begin. Beetee's not much use before his first cup of coffee. How he can drink that bitter-tasting stuff is a mystery to me. But I'm not much use without him, so the tributes will have to make do, I suppose.

"Edible plants is always worth a visit, and shelter-building, and…and fire-making," I add with a barely-suppressed shudder.

"Fire-making?" asks Deirdre. Torque's eyes have gone wide at the very mention of the word, with good reason. Most District Three tributes are abysmal fire-starters. I know I was, and judging by how Beetee flinched noticeably when an Avox came with a box of matches to light the candles on the dinner table last night (and then tried to pass it like he dropped his fork or something), he's no better than me. Back home, sparks are usually a sign that something's seriously wrong. Sparks are the prelude to fires that cause explosions and widespread death and destruction. But I doubt the television audience in the Capitol knows this. They probably just think we're rather incompetent.

"Yes, fire-making," Beetee concedes. "Might as well devote some time to building a new skill, right? That goes for the weapons stations, too. Give them a try. There's no telling what you might be good at."

"Probably not much," Deirdre murmurs dejectedly.

"What did we say about that kind of talk?" I ask, sounding eerily like my mother. Deirdre looks up, surprised that I'd heard her. "No giving up 'til the end," she recites obediently. "That's it," I agree. There's no reason for her to know that my optimism is largely illusory.

We're wrenched out of this conversation by Lucretia, who's clapping her hands very loudly and obnoxiously. "My goodness, you don't want them to be late for their first day of training, do you?" she asks frantically, but (much as we'd disdain admitting it) she's got a valid point. I motion for the tributes to take one last bite of breakfast, which they do mostly to appease me, and then we walk them out to the elevator. Try as they might to appear brave, they still look scared as the doors close and the elevator whisks them downstairs.

Lucretia turns to face the two of us. Her expression is unreadable. "I do hope they're alright down there," she says unexpectedly, and I feel a thoroughly unanticipated surge of affection for her.

"Really, Lucretia?" I ask warmly, glad to find that there's more to this strange woman than just dresses and makeup and schedules to be followed and appearances to be made.

"I never really knew you cared," Beetee adds, "no offense intended, of course."

Lucretia's eyes widen in genuine astonishment. "Why, I'm surprised at you two," she says, in a pantomime of looking taken aback that's too exaggerated to be entirely genuine. "Of _course_ I care about the tributes! Why, _all_ of our reputations rest on how those two perform in training and in the Games. In fact, I'd venture to say that _I_ care more about them than either of you, since neither of you seems to care much about _your_ reputation in the Capitol." And with that, she flounces past us into the apartment, leaving us standing by the elevator in disbelief.

"What's wrong with my reputation in the Capitol?" I ask, registering the last bit of Lucretia's self-defense a little belatedly.

Beetee shrugs. "Nothing, as far as I know."

I shake my head, refusing to let it go. "Lucretia implies that there's something wrong. What do people say about me?"

Beetee sighs in frustration at this point. "Wiress, I have no idea, and to be honest, I don't really care that much. They're Capitol people. You wear last week's fashion to this week's party and all of a sudden, it's like you've committed some kind of unspeakable offense." With that, he disappears inside as well, leaving me alone to contemplate this.

* * *

It's remarkable how slowly the day goes by without the tributes around. Most sponsors—the smart ones, at least—won't be arranging any meetings until they see the training scores the day after tomorrow. This leaves us mentors with little to do today as we await the tributes' return. I play six games of solitaire and count the number of steps it takes to walk the perimeter of our third floor apartment. Beetee gets me a copy of the Capitol newspaper and after we each take a turn reading it, we struggle to complete the crossword. Almost all the answers have to do with Capitol pop culture, and eventually we give it up as a lost cause.

"I give up, I have no idea who won last month's 'Wig Cleaning Service of the Month' award…" says Beetee in a tone of utter defeat.

"Wait, I actually know that one! I'm pretty sure it went to Wigs-R-Us…"

"Wiress, how on Earth would you know that?"

"They've got it printed on a billboard across from where we watched the parade. I was staring at it so no one would talk to me…"

* * *

After what seems like a million years, Torque and Deirdre return. They look exhausted and somewhat dispirited. Beetee and I follow them to the dining room, sit directly across from them, and stare pointedly, waiting for them to tell us all about their day.

Neither one speaks, at first. They avoid our gaze and we sit in complete silence. You can't even hear the hum of the overhead lights, like you can at home, because they use the good kind of light bulbs in the Capitol, the kind that make no noise. We use a lot of fluorescents back home. Not only do they hum, they make everyone look remarkably pale.

"Well?" Beetee finally asks, not entirely hiding his impatience particularly well. "How did it go?"

The tributes exchange a long glance. "Torque destroyed two training dummies," Deirdre begins in a slow, careful voice. "The trainer said they'll have to be replaced. Are they going to make you pay for them?"

Beetee actually _smiles_. "No, probably not. Destroyed them, you say? When you say, 'destroyed,' do you mean, totally?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Deirdre responds. "Why?" she adds in confusion, as Beetee starts laughing in obvious glee.

"What did the Careers do…when they saw…?" I chime in. This time, it's Torque who answers.

"Stared, mostly. Then whispered to each other. They didn't bother me at lunch, though," he adds reflectively. "They were trying to scare a bunch of the smaller tributes, knocking over their plates, asking if they're enjoying their last meal, that kind of thing."

"They know not to mess with you," Beetee explains, finally regaining control of himself. "They're either going to want to form an alliance with you, or kill you immediately at the bloodbath. Nice work!" This last comment is given with an enthusiasm that Torque can't quite wrap his mind around.

"Are you mad at me, or something?" he asks tentatively, and Beetee looks completely taken aback.

"Mad? Why would I be mad? You did an excellent job!" He pauses to let the praise sink in, hurriedly polishing his glasses on the hem of his shirt while Torque continues to look bewildered before he continues in the same enthusiastic voice as before. "See, now the Careers see you as a threat. The first thing they're going to want to do is neutralize that threat. Now that they've seen what you can do to training dummies, they'll probably try and win you over first. Think very carefully about it before turning them down."

"You want him in the Career pack?" I blurt out in astonishment. Beetee looks unimpressed by the level of shock this idea has imparted to all of us. "Possibly. It'd be a lot easier to get rid of them from inside, don't you think?"

"Why, you're very sneaky!" I say, as I come to this sudden realization. "Is that what _you_ did? Made friends with the Careers before you electrocuted them?"

Beetee looks troubled for a minute. He doesn't like talking about his Games. He went out for a three-hour walk the last time they aired on TV. In the _snow_, for that matter; I'm surprised he didn't catch his death of cold. "No, they'd never want an alliance with me. I can't destroy training dummies. I couldn't even hit them with the throwing knives, come to think of it. And that's why Torque has an advantage that neither of us ever had."

For the duration of this conversation, Torque's expression has grown increasingly troubled. "But I don't _want_ to be friends with the Careers!" he suddenly exclaims. "They hate us! They think we're…I dunno, less than human. D'you know they aren't even bothering to learn any of our names? 'District Three.' That's what they call _both_ of us. They're already planning who's gonna kill which tributes at the bloodbath."

He's getting agitated, so I lay a hand on his arm, and when I speak, I try to use a soothing voice. "We were 'District Three' once, too," I begin, thinking to myself, _Actually, I'm _still_ 'Three' to some of those other victors…_ "And the Careers grow up thinking like that. I'm not entirely sure they can help it. But maybe this is your chance to…to prove…"

"Prove them wrong," Beetee finishes for me. "So, Deirdre," he continues, drawing all our attention to our other tribute, who has been sitting unnoticed for the past several minutes. "How was _your_ day at training?"

Deirdre looks down into her lap, and when she speaks, her voice is scarcely audible. "I didn't do so well at the edible plants test," she begins shamefacedly, "and I completely lost my head at fire-starting; I got the matches to spark and shrieked like I'd…like I'd seen President Snow or something. It was _awful_," she concludes, her eyes welling up with tears. "The other tributes must think I'm completely worthless."

"I can't use matches," I say simply, because I can't think of any other way to cheer her up.

"Me either," Beetee chimes in, "although I _did_ manage to set my sleeve on fire once." This prompts Deirdre to smile, a sad little smile that breaks my heart. She hiccoughs, and I take the opportunity to try and talk her around.

"What skill were you best at today?" I ask interestedly. Deirdre's brow furrows as she thinks back to every station she'd tried. It looks like hard work, like she's really struggling to accept that she'd been good at anything. "I did okay at knife throwing," she begins, "shelter building wasn't so bad, either…spear throwing was a disaster, I could hardly lift the thing…"

"Okay," Beetee says, assessing the day's progress, "then tomorrow, I want you both to try and spend a little time at any of the stations you missed today. If you finish them all, go back and try and work on something you had a lot of trouble with. Even if that means memorizing only one or two edible plants or setting your sleeve on fire by accident—though I don't recommend the latter," he adds, as both tributes laugh reluctantly.

"And be nice to the other tributes," I chime in, on sudden inspiration. "I'm not saying that'll make them spare you in the arena, but it's worth a shot. You never know what.."

"Even the Careers," Beetee adds. "Even they might have their uses, you know."

It strikes me again, for the second time this morning, just how calculating Beetee can be. I wonder vaguely if I should watch my back around him. Maybe _I_ have _my_ uses, too.

* * *

_Not a lot of action, today, I know, but strategizing, while rather unexciting, can be lifesaving. And who says we __didn't get any action at all? I assure you from personal experience that setting your sleeve on fire is as action-packed an experience as one could possibly wish. Possibly moreso._

_Okay, here comes the part where I beg for your feedback. I'm going to skip the actual begging for today and simply ask you to please review, as it'll alleviate some of the gloom that's settled on me of late. I'm in the midst of a research project on a depressing topic I won't elaborate on just now, plus I just got some seriously bad news about a beloved former student, so I can't say how appreciated your cheerful reviews are...and how effectively they take my mind off...other things._

_Yours until-hopefully-tomorrow,_

_Delilah_


	10. Chapter 10

_Hi, everyone. Sorry I haven't been around of late. I've been pretty sick. I'm on the mend, but still not quite 100%. I've got a long history of respiratory issues, so that-coupled with the terrible cold-and-polluted air outside-made me fairly likely to get sick at least once this winter. So here I am, on my back, feeling lousy...but I also felt a little guilty, so I'm here to oblige you with an update. I can't promise when the next chapter will be up, since I'm not even back at work yet, but I'm hoping it will be soon._

* * *

10

"Well, I think I've figured them out," Deirdre declares at dinner. She and Torque have just arrived from their second day of training.

"Who?" asks Beetee, looking interested at this sudden, cryptic announcement.

"District Twelve," replies Deirdre, and I think back to the Tribute Parade, how the boy tried to protect the girl from the lecherous gazes of the crowd. I'd thought back then that there was something going on between them, but it seems like Deirdre's actually cracked their secret.

"And?" I ask, burning with curiosity. Deirdre smiles to herself for a moment; a thin, tense smile, savoring the moment before deigning to share what she knows.

"They're brother and sister!" she says in a great rush, like she's been dying to say it to someone all day, and her patience is rewarded when I nearly fall off my chair.

"_Brother and sister!?"_ Beetee chokes, and I drop my glass in shock. It shatters and its contents spill all over the ground. A blond Avox's eyes widen at the sight of my carelessness.

"I'd thought cousins, maybe lovers, but _brother and sister_? Oh, this is _bad_, this is _really bad_…" Beetee continues in a lower voice, possibly to himself.

"How can…what will…can they _do_ that?" I ask uncertainly. I've never seen siblings sent off to the Games together before. Either their family has the absolute worst luck in Panem, or else…or else someone in their family did something _very_ bad.

Beetee studies my expression, reading the thought that's crossing my mind and most likely my face as well. "It's unlikely," he says, but then stops and corrects himself. "No, not just _unlikely_, nearly _impossible_…I mean, the odds are astronomical, even in a small district like Twelve…there's got to be some sort of motive behind those two both getting called."

"They didn't say," Deirdre supplies, and Beetee nods in agreement. "No, they wouldn't volunteer information like that…they might not even know why themselves. Still, it's…troubling."

_Yes, it certainly _is_ troubling_, I think to myself. "How did you…how do you know…?" I ask Deirdre, and again, she smiles a little. It's strange, seeing her smile when we all know why she's here.

"I sat at the table behind them at lunch and overheard them talking," she says mildly, though none of us are planning on chastising her for eavesdropping.

"Well, you can bet _they'll_ be allies," Beetee comments, rather unnecessarily.

"Yeah," I add, just to have something to say. "What else did you...find out about…?"

"…The other tributes? Well, that girl from Four—Meris, or something?—she might _look_ like an innocent little girl, but she's cold as ice! She did all the stations by herself today; didn't really take any notice of anyone. Like she's better than all of us, or something."

"Does that mean she's not in the Career pack?" asks Torque in surprise, but Beetee shakes his head.

"No, most likely it just means she's got a chip on her shoulder about something or other. But I doubt she's stupid enough to go out on her own when's she's practically guaranteed an alliance from the start."

This makes sense. "What about that boy from Seven?" I find myself asking. He's only twelve, and I feel even sorrier for him than the others. His terrified face at the reaping has been haunting my dreams of late.

"He didn't do any stations at all," Torque says in a low voice. "He just sat there and cried, all day. Even his district partner couldn't get him to move."

Beetee cringes. "That won't end well," he predicts darkly, addressing no one in particular again, and in my mind's eye I see this boy as being one of those tributes who's killed in the first thirty seconds of the Games.

"Torque had lunch with the Careers today," Deirdre adds as though suddenly remembering this crucial detail. He frowns at her briefly for tattling on him, then squirms uncomfortably as both Beetee and I turn to look at him. "And?" I inquire.

"It was just like you said," Torque begins, "they pretty much left me alone all morning. Then, when we were heading in to lunch, that girl from One—Sable, her name was—she asked if I'd like to sit with them. I—I remembered what you said last night," he continues, looking from Beetee to me and back again in search of approval. "So I ate with them. They were…nice enough, I guess. I could tell they were just being nice because they want me on their side. They made some really rude jokes about the other tributes."

I nod in understanding, seeing why Torque would be so reluctant to team up with the Careers. _But if it keeps him safe_, the little voice in my head insists, _isn't it worth it?_

"Did they ask you outright?" Beetee asks politely. Listening to his tone of voice, you'd think he was inquiring about something as trivial as a dinner invitation.

"On our way back upstairs," Torque responds. "When we were waiting for the elevators. I told them I'd think about it."

"Better think fast," Beetee advises. "The alliances are pretty much set before the Games even begin. They'll probably want to know sometime tomorrow." Torque nods, looking distressed at having to decide so soon.

Lucretia has been surprisingly silent throughout dinner, but as the desserts are being brought out, she livens up a bit.

"Well, I _personally_ think we've had a very successful couple of days in training, haven't we?" she announces to the table at large, as though she _personally_ went down and trained alongside the tributes. As she speaks, she takes my peach pie from in front of me just as I'm lowering my fork to the plate and places it in front of Deirdre instead. "Here you are, dear, you'll need your strength," she simpers in a ridiculous parody of concern. Another Avox—a girl with long, shiny brown hair—places another plate in front of me, but before I can do more than look at it, Lucretia hands this second plate to Torque.

"That's _mine_!" I groan in frustration, and Lucretia wags a finger annoyingly in my direction. "None for you, dear, you'll want to watch your figure for the sponsors."

I give Beetee a look of pure incredulity, but he's too busy laughing behind his napkin. "Glad _you_ find it so funny," I hiss, helping myself to some pie from his plate as Lucretia looks on in disapproval.

"Let's hope that, if one of you is this year's victor, you'll be easier to work with than _these two_," she stage-whispers to the tributes, who stifle giggles. Apparently, my dessert-related power struggles have taken their minds off their own troubles, if only for a moment or so, and if that's all it takes, then I'd gladly go without dessert every night to ease their anxiety. Still, that peach pie's hard to pass up…

* * *

_I personally feel that pretty much_ any_ type of pie is hard to pass up. And so, please review, and I'm hoping to be back soon with chapter 11. Sorry again for my absence, but in my own defense, I'm really dragging around here. Damn winter._

_Yours,_

_Delilah_


	11. Chapter 11

_I'm back, everyone...and no, I neither died nor disappeared, though I'm recuperating from a serious bout of the flu, complicated by bronchitis. The funny thing is, I_ got_ my flu shot this year, and yet I still managed to contract one of the strains not included in this year's vaccine. Just my luck._

_Anyway, since I'm still stuck in bed most of the day but I'm no longer practically comatose from the medicine, I'm here today with our latest update. My special thanks go to reviewers **NutsandVolts** and **Inksmith**, as well as **buecherwurm91,** who recently favorited this story. _

* * *

11

The tributes return earlier from their third day of training than they had on either of the previous days. Torque arrives first, because if I remember correctly, the boy from each district precedes the girl at private sessions, an order that will be reversed at interviews.

"How did it go?" Beetee, Lucretia and I all ask at once as he steps into the hall, mildly surprised to find the three of us lying in wait for him. We've been standing in a jittery, taciturn, expectant row about five feet from the front door, waiting in absolute silence for the past hour.

"Okay, I guess," he says, his response infuriatingly vague.

"Did you wreck any more of their training dummies?" Beetee asks keenly.

"Yeah, I remembered how much you liked that," Torque answers with a slight smile. "I changed things up a bit, decapitated one with a sword. That wasn't as easy as it looks," he continues pensively, breaking off as he watches our reactions in astonishment. Beetee and I grab each other's hands, trying valiantly to keep from jumping up and down in excitement. "How did the Gamemakers look?" I ask breathlessly. For this one reason, and few others, I'm forever grateful that we're a low-numbered district; I've heard that by the time the Gamemakers see the tributes from Eleven and Twelve, they're not even paying attention anymore.

"Impressed, I suppose…one clapped a little when I did my bit with the sword."

There's nothing for it; it's gone as well as we could've possibly hoped. Beetee and I, still handclasped, are literally dancing around the dining area in jubilation, because the idea of mentoring a tribute who impressed the Gamemakers with his physical prowess, of all things, is so novel it's intoxicating.

"Did you talk to the Careers?" Beetee inquires suddenly as he spins me around the dining table, and we freeze in our tracks, dizzy, slightly off-balance, awaiting Torque's answer.

"Yeah," he begins slowly, clearly not wanting to elaborate but recognizing that we won't settle for a one-word answer. "Yeah, Sable and Quartz—that's the girl from Two" he adds, seeing our puzzled expressions, "Sable and Quartz asked me at lunch. I said…"

"Yes? Go on, Torque, we're not judging you…we've all done what we had to do when it was our turn."

He hesitates. I know he wasn't keen on the idea of teaming up with the Careers, but there's no obvious explanation for the vague shiftiness in his manner. Finally, with the air of one swallowing some particularly unpleasant medicine, Torque confesses.

"I said I would, but only if they lay off Deirdre," says Torque in a big rush.

This is completely unexpected. I gasp audibly, unable to contain my surprise.

"And what—what did they say?" questions Beetee, who I can tell is trying to figure out how he should respond to Torque's surprising revelation.

Torque looks slightly relieved at having gotten the information off his chest, even if it's unclear how we feel about it at this moment. "They said okay, but they can't make any promises once most of the other tributes are dead. And they said if she attacks us, all deals are off."

I let out a sigh, feeling dizzy, knowing it's not due to the dancing and spinning, at least not anymore. The Careers, purposely avoiding Deirdre…it's better than I could've wished for. Beetee grins at Torque, whose shoulders seem to relax now that he realizes that he's not going to be reprimanded. "You did exactly right," Beetee praises him, "it was very noble of you." I nod fervently when Torque looks to me for confirmation.

"Can I go now?" Torque asks uncertainly, looking from Beetee to me and back again. Lucretia's giggling into her hands and is probably not the best person to look to for a cue just now.

"Go on," Beetee replies, and Torque disappears down the hall. Without waiting even a minute after Torque's back retreats out of sight, Beetee turns to me, looking serious.

"Well," he begins, _"that_ was..."

"Unexpected?" I finish. He nods fervently in confirmation.

"It certainly was," he agrees. "I wonder what brought that on?"

"I think he...he feels...protective of..." I struggle to explain, thinking of how I might feel towards my younger brother Bolton in similar circumstances.

"Protective?" Beetee repeats absentmindedly, "yes, I'm sure he must...though that could be due to any number of...might have some other motivation behind...wouldn't be surprised if..." His voice trails off inaudibly, so engrossed is he in his own thoughts. I know better than to try and figure out what he's talking about, because he doesn't look like he's planning on explaining further.

"Do you think it'll hurt his chances?" I ask, hoping to pull Beetee out of his reverie. He looks up as if he's surprised to see me, even though not a moment ago, this had been a two-person conversation.

"I don't know," he admits. "If the Careers turn against him, then they'd both be targets. But if he stays in their good graces until he can kill them off, then she's safe as well." I reflect on this for a moment. Torque's dangerous gamble will apparently pay off either all or nothing for Deirdre as well.

* * *

Deirdre arrives shortly after Torque wanders off to his room to wait for dinner. Rather than converging on her at the door, we sit at the dining table and wait for her to approach us.

"Well, it's done," she says wearily, sinking into an empty chair at the table. We both fix her with inquiring glances and she elaborates. "I threw some knives, built a shelter…completely avoided the fires, though, hope you don't mind. It went pretty much the same way training went yesterday. They didn't speak at all; just scribbled stuff on their clipboards."

"Very good," Beetee says. "Remember, the training scores are only used for betting purposes. Some tributes try to do terrible, some tributes actually _are_ terrible and end up winning…I'd say you'll score solidly in the middle of the pack, but that means nothing, because the arena's nothing like the Training Center."

Deirdre nods weakly, and indicates that she'd like to change before dinner, so she abandons us to discuss her progress in her absence.

"Well, she wasn't in tears, so that's a good sign," Beetee says flatly.

"Yes, at least there's that," I concede. "Did you really mean that, about the training scores?"

"Of course. Did _you_ get a top score?"

I think back to my own private session. "No," I admit, "I got a six."

"I got a five," Beetee confesses. "And look at us now. Training scores count for very little in the grand scheme of things."

* * *

Beetee's predictions come true, down to the last detail. After dinner, we all gather in front of the television screen to watch the airing of the training scores. Caesar Flickerman appears on the screen, and there's some pointless exposition on what the tributes have been doing for the past three days before a picture of the District One boy appears on the screen.

Predictably, the tributes from One and Two all score in the 8-to-10 range. Then, Torque's score appears on the screen. Nine.

"Well, would you look at that!" quips Caesar onscreen. "Nine—a _very_ impressive score; I believe it sets a new high score record for District Three! I'm telling you, the factory district is serving up surprise after surprise this year, ever since last year's shocking victory..."

We scarcely hear the additional commentary, thought, because we're all cheering so loudly. Torque had elaborated on his strategy to join the Careers over dinner, and his nine in training furthers his cover quite credibly.

Apparently satisfied in his discussion of Torque's unforeseen nine, Caesar moves on to Deirdre. Six. He immediately recalls the audience's attention to my own six last year.

We watch the rest of the tributes' scores in relative silence. The pair from Four score matching nines; the remaining tributes' scores range from four to seven, with the little boy from Seven standing as the exception. He scores a two. No one speaks when his score is read. Beetee looks down dejectedly, because we both know this boy will most likely be the first casualty of the Games.

After the final tribute's score fades from the screen, Caesar good-naturedly reminds the viewers to tune in the day after tomorrow for the live broadcast of the tributes' interviews. Felix clicks the remote control and the screen goes black.

"Well," says Lucretia briskly, "Off to bed, then! Big day tomorrow—so much to do before the interviews!" She leaps from her the spot where she'd been poised at the end of the sofa and actually chivvies the tributes out towards their bedrooms.

* * *

I'm brushing my hair in the full-length mirror in my bedroom after everyone's headed off to bed. My hair is so thick and unmanageable that this takes about three-quarters of an hour most nights. I'm doing battle with a particularly stubborn knot, my eyes squinting as I blink back tears, when I hear the voices coming from the dining area. I'd thought everyone would be trying to get some sleep by now. There's something furtive about the whispers I hear coming from outside, something that tells me that they'd break off their conversation if they knew I was listening, so I crouch down behind my door and, after only a moment of hesitation in which I question the ethics of eavesdropping, I crouch down behind my bedroom door, press my ear to the crack between door and doorframe and listen with bated breath.

"So, tell me: why'd you really do it?" It's Beetee's voice, politely curious but with a grave edge to it.

"Do...what?" Torque's feigned ignorance fools no one, not even me, hidden behind the closed door.

"You know exactly what. Bargain with the Careers to protect Deirdre."

"What, I need a reason? It seemed like the right thing to do," Torque protests. I can imagine him shrugging his shoulders noncommittally.

Beetee seems to laugh. _"Everyone's_ got an ulterior motive; it's the Hunger Games. I'm just curious to know what I'm working with here. I can't help you if you're not honest with me. Now, tell me, why'd you do it? Did she ask you to?"

Torque bristles at this, his voice is vehement as he denies it. "No! No, she'd never ask me to...she doesn't even know..."

Beetee sighs audibly. "Do you love her? Is that why you did it?"

I gasp, then clap my hand over my mouth, hoping I wasn't too loud. Love? Two tributes? The very idea takes me by surprise; I can't remember seeing any Games where the tributes from any given district were in love with each other, though I admit it's possible. But wouldn't one of us have noticed something before? I cast my mind back over every moment I've spent with the two of them together. Had either of them acted in a manner that may have disguised secret feelings of love? _Maybe she doesn't know about it_, I remind myself. It would make sense for a boy to want to protect the girl he loves, even from a prudent distance, maybe unacknowledged. It would be terribly romantic.

"No, I'm not in love with her," Torque admits. "I barely know her. She just...she's so small, and she looks so helpless next to those Careers...tries to be so nice to the other tributes...I guess if I ever had a sister, I'd want her to be like Deirdre," he finishes. Beetee doesn't respond immediately. Even from the next room, I can tell he's thinking hard.

"So...so you're saying you feel...protective of her? Like an older brother?"

"Exactly."

"Very well," Beetee replies. His voice betrays no telltale emotion, none at all. "I just wanted to be sure. Like I said earlier, it was very gallant of you. I just...I hope it works."

"Me, too," Torque agrees. "I didn't realize, not until after I'd said it, that this meant they might go after her as a way of getting at me...by the time I realized, it was too late. I was stupid, I guess."

"No," Beetee counters. "No, not stupid. You were trying to do the right thing. Like you'd told your mother you would. It's admirable."

Torque's voice wavers ever-so-slightly. "I told my mom...told her I'd try to make her proud. I thought...maybe..."

"She'll be proud," Beetee assures him, "how can she not be? I know _I_ am, and Wiress, too. You take that with you when you go into that arena, and think about it whenever things get too tough. You'll do that?"

Torque doesn't answer; I assume he must have nodded by way of response, because Beetee says, "Good. Now get some rest, won't you? We've still got work to do before the Games, and I can't have you falling asleep on me when I'm trying to give you valuable mentor-tribute advice." A moment later, I hear footsteps passing my door and retreat back, towards my bed, just in case either of them were to come looking for me and find me eavesdropping.

I lie in my bed, looking out the window, waiting for Beetee to make his customary appearance, turning over what I'd heard Torque say in my mind. I can't help feeling guilty, maybe inferior, because while he's tempting fate, possibly courting disaster so that he can think well of himself and make his mother proud, all I'd concerned myself with in the Games was getting out of that arena, one way or another. I'm a selfish woman, I conclude. _But you're also a survivor_, the voice in my head responds. _Doesn't that make up for it?_

I honestly can't say.

* * *

_Well, there you have it. I hope you readers are doing well and aren't sick like me. Please do me the courtesy of reviewing and I will, hopefully, be back very soon with chapter 12._

_Yours,_

_Delilah_


	12. Chapter 12

_Good afternoon! I'm back, fairly quickly I think, with chapter 12, and I'm pleased to say that it's a long one! Thanks go out to everyone out there who's reading and following me and-_ahem_-reviewing._

_I am a huge proponent of bedtime stories, which is why we open with one today._

* * *

12

"Tell me a story," I ask Beetee as we lie in my room, watching the lights from outside form patterns on the ceiling. The training scores' broadcast is still fresh in our minds, and my guilt in the wake of Torque's noble confession has scarcely abated. Tomorrow's the last day before interviews and I'm too nervous to sleep. Tomorrow, Deirdre and I have to piece together her strategy, a strategy that cannot rely squarely on Torque's ability to keep the Careers at bay.

"What kind of story?" he asks.

"A true one. Tell me a story about your family."

"Why don't you tell _me_ a story?It's _your_ room."

"I'm not very good at…telling…"

"That's a matter of opinion," Beetee rejoins. "I'd _like_ to hear a story about you."

_You're probably the only one,_ I think to myself, but Beetee never asks me for anything, so I oblige. "Fine," I say grudgingly, "but you're next then."

"Deal," says Beetee, settling into the covers a little _too_ comfortably considering that it's _my_ room and _my_ bed. Though of course, I _did_ invite him in.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I went ice-skating?" I begin, knowing perfectly well I've never told Beetee this story. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've never told anyone this story before. It never seemed important enough.

"No! When was that?" Beetee looks intrigued, and I don't blame him. Ice-skating isn't exactly a common pastime back home.

"I was seven," I continue. "It was really cold that winter, and a bit of the river froze thick enough to walk on. It was under the bridge, the one near…near the Communications Center," I explain, visualizing the place in my mind as I struggle to describe it to Beetee.

"I remember that year. I was on my Victory Tour. Gloria said we'd all get pneumonia, going from warm weather in some districts to snow and ice back home."

"We'd been stuck inside for weeks, because of the cold…"

"'We'?"

"Electra and Bolton and me. Electra was eleven, and Bolton…he must've been four. We were so bored, stuck in the apartment every day after school." I'm entranced by the fact that I can finish so many of my sentences in quick succession. It seems a lot easier to get my ideas out when I'm talking about something safe, something familiar.

"Did you drive your mother crazy?" Beetee asks mischievously, and I smile, remembering the exasperation in my mother's eyes as she'd told us to find _something_ to do, something that _didn't_ involve making a racket that would disturb the neighbors or a mess that she'd get stuck cleaning up.

"I'm sure we did, because one night my father…he came home with a big bag that he tried to hide behind his back."

"What did he bring you?" asks Beetee, though I'm sure he knows where this story is going. He's a very good audience; he asks questions in all the right places.

"Ice skates," I reply, seeing them gleaming before me, as my father pulled them out from the bag with a flourish of excitement. "He'd made them himself, my dad, from spare parts he was able to sneak out of work. They weren't…anything fancy, just…just a set of blades you'd strap on over your boots." _Oh, but they were wonderful_, I want to add, recalling the pride on my father's face as he'd seen our ebullient expressions, the satisfaction he must have felt at being able to give his children a _real_ present. I don't know how exactly to translate this into words, though, so I go on.

"The next day was Saturday and Dad wasn't working until the third shift, so he took us out to the place where the river was frozen so we could try them out. We were bundled up so much…my brother could barely walk…" All at once, I see Bolton, four years old, suited up in so many layers of woolen outerwear that he couldn't even put his arms all the way down. I smile, lost in memory, forgetting for the moment that I'm at the Hunger Games.

"So you went skating on the frozen river? Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Dad checked to make sure it was thick enough before he let any of us go out," I reply in defense of my father's judgment. "We sat in the snow next to the road and put our skates on, and when we first stepped on that ice…it felt like someone pulled the floor out from under us. We skidded and slid and fell again and again."

I'm smiling, thinking back to that day, laughing in the snow with Electra, watching Bolton flailing his little arms wildly, seeing my father's indulgent grin once again in my mind's eye, the way he looked before my mother died and I was sent off to the Games and it all fell apart.

Beetee is smiling, too, though I'm sure he can't fully understand the nature of my nostalgia. "It sounds like you really enjoyed yourself," he remarks, and I nod in assent. "So what happened?" he asks, and I ask myself the same thing, knowing the answer deep down inside. "Did you get in trouble with the Peacekeepers? Did you ever go again?"

I look down, suddenly sad. "The next winter was even colder, but we…we never got to…"

"Too cold for you?" Beetee asks innocently, but I shake my head. "That was the winter my mother got sick," I whisper, and sudden understanding crosses Beetee's face. He knows my mother is dead; I just never told him the details.

"I'm sorry, Wiress," he says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "If only I'd known, I wouldn't have asked…"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt, because it doesn't. It's all in the past. I don't like to think about the past if I can help it.

We lie there in silence for a while, until Beetee breaks the silence yet again. "Thanks for the story," he says. "You're welcome," I reply, and I mean it. It felt good to escape, if only for a little while, to a happier time; to share such a good memory with someone who could appreciate it. "Just remember," I add on sudden inspiration, "you owe _me_ a story next time." He squeezes my hand in reply.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up feeling surprisingly calm. I can't imagine why. I'm ready to bet money that, after the tributes, I'm the most uptight, anxious person in this whole building. Maybe in the entire Capitol, for that matter. But I feel safe and warm in this comfortable bed, with Beetee beside me, knowing deep down that nothing can hurt me here. It's hard to drag myself out of bed, get myself dressed, face breakfast and whatever new horrors the day will most likely bring.

Lucretia's at the breakfast table, waiting for us _yet again_. She must get up at the crack of dawn to put on her face. Torque and Deirdre are sitting side-by-side, stony-faced. I silently take my seat across from them and look to Lucretia to start the conversation. She's immersed in the task of adding sugar to her coffee. She's already added so much milk that the coffee's turned the color of sand.

"Where is that mentor of yours?" she asks Torque, finally looking up from her coffee cup. I don't even know if Beetee's awake yet; when I wandered into the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed, he'd still been fast asleep. Lucretia sighs audibly.

"Sometimes I wonder if he purposely waits until he gets to the Capitol each year to catch up on lost sleep," she mutters, squinting irritably at Beetee's bedroom door and then looking back at the tributes, who look perplexed. Then she directs her gaze to me.

"I suppose _you_ can start with the tributes, and _I'll_ go wake up the other one," Lucretia tells me, half-rising from her chair, clearly trying to convey what a monumental inconvenience it is for her to be wasting her valuable time trying to rouse Beetee from his semi-comatose state.

It's then that I realize that when Lucretia opens that door, all she'll find is an empty room…because Beetee's currently still passed out in _my_ bed. And when Lucretia sees that empty room, she'll either assume Beetee's gone on the run from his mentoring duties (entirely understandable; I've already considered it myself seven or eight times since arriving in the Capitol) or she'll start looking around the floor until she gets to my room, and our secret will be out. Or even worse…she'll draw her _own_ conclusions, conclusions which—forged in her Capitolean mind—would likely be both scandalous _and_ perverse.

This startling possibility causes me to choke on my orange juice and Lucretia halts in mid-step, watching me gasping for air and Torque running around the table to whack me forcefully on the back. "No—wait, Lucretia, I need you to—I—" She just looks at me, confused, as my mind races trying to think of something to say to keep her busy.

"What's going on over there?" says Beetee's voice from somewhere down the hall, and I'm suddenly indescribably relieved that Lucretia won't be asking me awkward questions about how my district partner ended up in my bed.

"Do you _own_ an alarm clock?" Lucretia asks snidely. Beetee looks bored, like he's gotten this lecture before and considers it beneath his notice.

"I mustn't have heard it," he says lightly, which causes Lucretia's frown to deepen. If she doesn't watch out, she'll give herself wrinkles that way, a fate worse than death here in the Capitol. "You never do," she responds, "and I'd think that you'd want to make the tributes' time your priority. It's your _job_, after all."

"Thank you, I _know_ that, Lucretia," Beetee replies, his tone rapidly approaching the same degree of irritability as Lucretia's. "I'm here _now_, aren't I? I'll try to…I don't know, set a louder alarm or something tomorrow."

"You weren't up late _drinking_, were you? After all the trouble you gave me over _her_"—here, Luretia points a bony finger in my direction—"having a drink or two on her Victory Tour?"

"Do I _look_ like I've been drinking, Lucretia? If I had been, I probably wouldn't be so annoyed by your interrogation right now!"

Torque and Deirdre are watching this exchange, fascinated. I think their amusement at Beetee and Lucretia's argument has momentarily driven their own troubles from their minds. Either that, or it's the simple curiosity that draws children to invariably eavesdrop on their parents' arguments: the sheer novelty of watching adults behave like children.

"Can we maybe—?" I interject, and they both stop talking and look at me. It's just like when Beetee interrupted the Careers' argument at the parade. I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable being the center of attention.

Lucretia shakes her head like a dog ridding its ears of water, apparently trying to get her bearings back. "So…the interviews," she says, forcibly directing herself back on track. "You'll each have three hours' time with me, for presentation, and three with your—_mentors_,"—here, her voice takes on a tone indicating that she apparently doesn't think much of us mentors or our mentoring techniques. "For content," she adds unnecessarily.

"Content? Presentation?" Deirdre looks perplexed. "How to answer the questions, how to walk and sit on stage, that kind of stuff," clarifies Beetee quickly, and she nods, though with a doubtful expression that tells me that Deirdre's clearly wondering what any of us could possibly have to teach her that could take up six hours of her remaining time left on Earth.

Lucretia indicates that she wants to take Deirdre first, so I nod encouragingly as she allows Lucretia to sweep her off in the direction of her bedroom to try on dress shoes and gowns and practice walking around in them. I remember doing that last year, and not liking it much. The borrowed shoes gave me blisters and the borrowed gowns were at least six inches too long.

It takes me a minute to realize that if Deirdre's in with Lucretia, then I have nothing to do for the next few hours. I pace around the living room and dining area, wondering how I'll tackle the interview with Deirdre. I peek in through the door to see how Beetee coaches Torque; he seems to be reading off little cards, asking Torque questions a lot like the ones Caesar Flickerman uses and evaluating Torque's responses. I suppose I can do this, so I set off to find some paper and a pen, intending to jot down as many questions as I can think of. I wonder vaguely where he'd procured his handy little deck of interview cards, and whether I can come up with some of my own.

There's one problem, though: I have no idea where to find paper in this place. I search every drawer I can find, to no avail. I'm digging through the cabinet beneath the sideboard (to my dismay, it holds only crystal glasses) when I get the uneasy feeling that I'm being watched. I'm very attuned to this sort of thing ever since my time in the arena. Slowly, I turn around. An Avox is standing behind me. He's got shiny platinum hair and finely chiseled features, and I find myself wondering morbidly what he'd done to get himself mutilated and sent to wait on us.

The Avox raises an eyebrow, silently watching me rummaging through the sideboard on my hands and knees. "I was just…" I begin, feeling my cheeks growing red, wondering why I feel so foolish. "…Just looking for a pen," I finish, and the Avox nods. He wanders off into the kitchen and emerges maybe two minutes later with a pen and a pad of paper. "Thank you," I say, and I mean it, because I was beginning to get frustrated for a moment there.

He nods again, then turns and disappears into the kitchen again. I settle into a chair at the dining table and pause for a minute, my pen hovering over the blank surface of the page, thinking of the questions I'd heard in Hunger Games interviews as far back as I can remember.

_Do you have anything to say to your family and friends back home?_

_If you could let the sponsors out there know one thing about you, what would it be?_

_What do you think is your greatest advantage in the Games?_

_What was your first impression of the Capitol once you arrived?_

_What's your strategy to win the Games?_

I stop writing all of a sudden, because just reading my own notes is making me vaguely ill. Even though I've been watching the Games for my entire life, it's struck me anew just how disgusting the whole thing is. Asking these poor kids (twenty-three of whom will soon be dead and one who'll soon be _worse_ than dead) how they feel about the Capitol, what their last message to their family is…it's _appalling_. I stare at the page in horror.

"Well, she's all ready for you," says a high-pitched, fluttery voice behind me. I look up to see Lucretia standing there. Deirdre's hovering uncertainly in the doorway of her room. She's wearing an absurdly frilly dress and five-inch heels. She towers over me but still manages to look vulnerable. I hadn't realized how long it took for me to procure paper and jot down these five paltry questions; apparently, three hours has passed already.

"Thanks, Lucretia, I'll just…" I begin, but I make it to the door, clutching my notepad, before I can finish. Lucretia's not listening, anyway. She's settled herself in front of a large ornamental mirror and has gone to work on her face. She's already wearing a layer of make-up so thick her face looks like it's made of ceramic, but this doesn't deter her one bit.

Deirdre waits for me to close the door softly behind myself before she kicks off the shoes in disgust and sinks onto her bed, massaging her feet.

"Can you believe these things she's got me wearing? I don't know what I'll do if the ones I have to wear tomorrow night are that high; I fell three times. I'll break an ankle!"

I suppress a giggle, because she reminds me a little of my sister Electra on her wedding day. She was so nervous she couldn't even button her dress because her hands were shaking so badly, and she tripped over the hem twice on our way to the Justice Building. I'd prevailed upon Felix to make the dress for her, as a favor to his 'favorite new victor,' but he'd designed it with someone else's measurements in mind, because it was far too long for Electra and she nearly broke her neck the first time she tripped and fell down several stairs. The look on her face as she'd burst out "I'm going to kill myself in this thing!" was _exactly_ like the look Deirdre is giving me now.

"So," I begin, and Deirdre leans forward, hanging on every word I'm not saying.

"You interview. You made such a…such a good impression at the parade," I say as Deirdre smiles uncertainly. "What would you say, if you weren't my mentor?" she asks, and I smile.

"You looked exquisite," I say without hesitation. "But we need to let the audience know you've got…got substance as well as style."

"I don't know what to say to them," Deirdre confesses. "If they ask about my family, I don't know how I'll keep from crying."

I think about this for a moment, turning it over in my mind. Crying is a risky thing to do. Rarely, it'll get the audience to sympathize with a tribute; usually, it just earns them a reputation as a weakling. The sponsors want to see fighters, not sobbing children. I need to find a way to get Deirdre to keep her composure, at all costs.

_She thinks she'll cry if they talk about her family_, I think to myself. _I can't write the questions and hand them to Caesar. I certainly can't make Deirdre any less upset about leaving her family behind. I have to cut her off before she can burst into tears on camera, _I decide. "How about you keep your answers brief, then?" I suggest at last.

Deirdre looks doubtful. "How can that help?" she asks wearily. "It doesn't change anything, and it won't get me any sponsors, will it?"

I arrange my face into what I hope is a confident expression. "It will. Don't give yourself a chance to get upset. Play it off like…like you've got a clever plan and you don't want to give too much of it away. They'll think you're being mysterious. They'll love it."

"Do you really think so?" Deirdre asks, and I nod. I give her some of the despised practice questions, and we frame the responses in a way that the Capitol crowd would most likely interpret as being coy, but in reality serves to keep Deirdre from losing her composure.

"Let's try it again—what do you want to let the sponsors know about…?"

"I won't give up. I'll never stop fighting until I get home, I won't forget what I owe my family, my…my friends back home, my…" She pauses, her eyes tearing up, and I hold up a hand to silence her.

"No," I say firmly, "You've said too…too much. You've gone and…and upset…try it again." I take a steadying breath and re-read the question.

"What would you like to let the sponsors know about you?"

Blotting her tears away, Deirdre forces herself to adopt an expressionless face. It takes a while, but I hold up a hand mirror so she can see what she looks like. She raises an eyebrow as if mildly intrigued by the question…but only mildly so.

"I don't give up," she says mildly. "Ever." I nod, raising a finger, and she interprets my signal correctly, raising her chin in what could pass for an intangible air of confidence.

The more we rehearse, the more confident I feel. Deirdre has this natural air of charm, of likability that would certainly win over the crowds. In the end, my job just consists of letting her see that. I wonder vaguely if the rest of my duties will be this easy; somehow, I doubt it.

* * *

_Well, there you have it. Will Wiress & Deirdre's strategy pay off at the interviews? Will Beetee ever make good on his promise to tell Wiress a story? Will he ever acquire a functional alarm clock? Will Lucretia ever decide that 'less is more' is valuable fashion advice? Will I ever tire of asking rhetorical questions? Tune in...um, soon...for chapter 13, in which I hope you'll find some levity to offset the Games looming in the not-so-distant future._

_The ice skating scene was inspired by something my dad did when I was little. He hosed down the alley next to our house and let it freeze overnight, one particularly frigid winter. We had those skates that strap on over your regular shoes, and while it wasn't exactly Rockefeller Center, it was so much fun. I'll never forget that day...and apparently, never will Wiress. _

_Please let me know what you thought. Yes, I do read your reviews, and now that I feel a little less like death warmed over, I even reply to them. _

_All the best,_

_Delilah_


	13. Chapter 13

_Back again, everyone! I just want to thank everyone who read Chapter 12, __especially those who reviewed **(NutsandVolts** and **Chlocook)** and favorited **(lucylovesbooks)** this story. Your feedback makes me happy!_

_I promised a light chapter today, so let's enjoy it before the Games start and things start to go downhill, shall we?_

* * *

13

I feel guilty about stealing away the tributes' final hours from them, so when my three hours with Deirdre are up, I wander into the television room. "Did you want me to do anything else?" she asks me tentatively, lingering in the hall behind me. "Practice some more, or…?"

"Take the afternoon off," I reply definitively. I can't take much more mentoring without what my father calls a 'mental health break' and Deirdre looks like she's getting anxious again. It's clear we both need to clear our heads. Deirdre nods, then wanders off in the direction of her room, and after vaguely wondering whether she's going to practice her facial expressions in the mirror some more, I continue on my way towards the living room, halfheartedly contemplating seeing what they air on TV in the Capitol.

Beetee's already in here, sprawled on the sofa, flipping the channels distractedly. He's probably been here a while; he finished _his_ mentoring duties three hours ago. I watch him staring at the TV and briefly question whether he can even tell what he's watching on each channel before he flips to the next one.

"What are you doing?" I ask lightly. He looks up, a little surprised to see that he's got company. "Killing time," he responds, and I wince at the mention of killing, even in a metaphorical sense, so soon before the start of the Hunger Games, where there'll be killing in abundance.

"Seven thousand channels and there's _nothing_ on," he laments as I settle myself on the sofa next to him.

"Seven…seven _thousand_?" I repeat, awestruck. Back home, we have exactly _one_ channel. During the part of the year that's _not_ devoted to broadcasting the Hunger Games and Victory Tour, it alternates between news broadcasts from the Capitol and reruns of old Hunger Games. Mine haven't made an appearance yet; I guess they were just too recent to be syndicated yet, but maybe next year I'll flip on the TV one day to see an eighteen-year-old version of myself staring back at me. Beetee's Games have aired before, though. He comes up with all sorts of excuses to avoid watching them.

"Yeah," Beetee scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Seven thousand. And it's all completely idiotic. Want to try?" He holds out the remote control and I take it.

I point it at the massive television screen and click. The screen instantly switches from a commercial advertising perfume (at least I _think_ it's perfume, but what on _earth_ does a shirtless guy riding a horse and a woman splashing her reflection in a pond have to do with perfume?) to a half-dozen Capitol weirdoes standing on the edge of a tall building. They're wearing harnesses. An effeminate-looking man holding a microphone and a deck of notecards—possibly the reporter we met on our first day here—crows, "Okay, now—moment of truth. Will you choose to answer one of the _painfully_ detailed, embarrassingly _personal_ questions I have here,"—he waves the cards around for all to see—"or dive headfirst off this hundred-story building?" One of the contestants clutches her wig with both hands and whimpers like a kicked puppy.

"Jump," Beetee chides from his spot next to me. "I don't need to know any more sordid Capitol secrets; I've already heard my share. Let's see you jump off the roof. Wonder what we'd have to do to sign President Snow up for this show," he adds thoughtfully. "Those harnesses don't look too sturdy. I'm betting we didn't make them back home. I'm just not seeing that high level of District 3 workmanship."

I click the remote again. A woman with gold chips embedded in a semicircle design along the top curve of her breasts is crying hysterically, clutching at a man's arm as he storms toward the door of a sumptuous apartment.

"Don't—you can't leave me," she wails, "I'll die without you!"

"It's too late for that," the man replies gruffly. "I can _never_ forgive what you did to me. You should've thought of that _before_ you slept with my brother's eyebrow stylist."

"I wonder how much _that_ hurt," Beetee muses, peering at the woman under his glasses. I think about it for maybe half a second. Does he mean the metallic implants, or the implied betrayal?

"_Too_ much, I'd say" I rejoin, imagining how it would feel to have someone cut open my breasts and stick little gold disks in…I shudder.

"Well, if you ever decide to sleep with my brother's eyebrow stylist, I guess we'll know," Beetee teases, and for some inexplicable reason, I blush. Why am I blushing? _Why?_

"What if it was the other way…?" I begin, trying to use the mere power of my mind to keep my cheeks from burning.

"You mean, if _I_ slept with _your_ brother's eyebrow stylist? I guess it'd be just as bad, wouldn't it?"

_This line of conversation's pretty bad_, I think to myself, _especially considering that there's nothing between us. There's nothing_ to_ betray. Is there? _I don't know how to answer myself, so I change the channel, in a vain attempt to find some normalcy.

Click. Some sort of interview show comes on, reminding me forcibly of the tributes' interviews tomorrow. This show isn't hosted by Caesar Filckerman, though; a panel of men and women are gathered in plush armchairs, debating the relative merits of one skin dye over another and reading the results of yesterday's phone-in poll: "Top Ten Sexiest Hunger Games Victors Ever." Click.

"Hey! I wanted to see that!" Beetee protests vehemently. I look right at him in complete surprise.

"What, think you made the Top Ten this year?" I ask in an attempt at lighthearted banter, while I'm very conscious of the fact I'm inexplicably blushing again.

"No, but I bet _you_ did," he replies, giving me a look that I can't quite classify. This is ridiculous; I can actually _feel_ my cheeks burning. I refuse to look at him; instead, I stare at the TV screen as though I've never seen anything so fascinating in my life. I'm good at this. I had plenty of practice at the Tribute Parade.

"Come on, why wouldn't you?" Beetee persists, as I studiously avoid meeting his eyes.

"I'm a scrawny, half-starved nobody the size of a preadolescent boy with bad pores and skinny wrists…" I quote my stylist absentmindedly, still not tearing my eyes away from the commercial for a Hunger Games betting service run out of some bar now playing on the screen. The bar's hosting a costume party tomorrow night. Cash prizes for the best tribute and victor costumes. I wonder if there'll be any Wiresses in the crowd.

Beetee grabs me by the shoulders, startling me. I didn't expect him to try and get my attention _this_ way. "Don't you ever let me hear you talking about yourself like that," he scolds gently.

"_Felix_ does," I point out.

"Felix is an imbecile," Beetee replies matter-of-factly. "Yesterday, I saw him making a pyramid out of District Three bread at the breakfast table. 'I wonder why they give us all these little square rolls every day, at every meal,' he said. The man's supposed to be a District 3 stylist and he didn't even recognize our district bread. Complete idiot. I wouldn't take his opinion on _anything_ seriously, if I were you."

I laugh, a little unwillingly, partly at Felix's stupidity and partly at Beetee's impression of him—he's inexplicably good at mimicking those Capitol types—but I'm wondering anew why Beetee cares so much what I think of myself. I mean, it's not like I'd be so overcome with despair at not being chosen as Panem's 10th Sexiest Hunger Games Victor Ever that I'd slink off to slit my wrists in the bathtub and leave him to do all the mentoring all alone, or anything.

Beetee seems to read my mind. He takes the remote from my hand and says "TV, off" to no one in particular. A disembodied voice says "Goodbye" and the screen goes black. Beetee turns back to face me. His expression is very serious, more appropriate to someone's deathbed than a sunny Capitol living room, even if it _is_ in the Training Center.

"You are a beautiful, intelligent, charming young woman," he informs me, as though I'm his teacher and I just asked him to recite some formula I'd had him memorize.

"And _you_, sir, are a flatterer," I rejoin, narrowing my eyes, trying to spot his angle. "And maybe even a liar," I add mockingly.

Beetee shakes his head. "Is it lying if I really believe it to be true? Even if it isn't, it doesn't make me a liar."

"Just wrong," I admit, but Beetee shakes his head again.

"I prefer misguided. But sometimes the misguided decisions are the best kinds."

He's looking at me again, that same look I can't quite figure out. Lately, I've been wondering more and more frequently if Beetee's just too smart for me. He's certainly better with words, and I've been having more and more trouble trying to figure out what he's thinking of late, why he says certain things and does certain things. It shouldn't bother me, but it does. I'm determined to figure out exactly what's going through his mind, if it concerns me.

Beetee gives me a smile and gets to his feet. "Well, I think I'll take a shot at today's crossword before dinner," he muses. "Care to join me? Since you're the Capitol expert and all. _I_ never would've gotten that one about the wig cleaners." I can't tell if he's mocking me or not, so I shake my head, determined to sort my thoughts out before he manages to give me even _more_ to think about. He nods in apparent understanding and wanders off.

I think I've got my hands full with this one. I was so relieved, so happy to have found a friend in the lonely days after my Games—someone who accepted me unconditionally, someone who might actually understand. But who knows? Maybe I got more than I'd bargained for.

* * *

_And so, a brief instance of comedy and lighthearted romance in the dark world of the impending Games. What are your thoughts, readers? And were we to continue flipping channels, what kind of shows do you think we'd come across? It's the Capitol, after all, so the sky's the limit. _

_Thanks for reading today and check in tomorrow for an update! In the meantime, please review!_

_Cheers,_

_Delilah_


	14. Chapter 14

_Good afternoon, everyone! It'll be a quick update today, since I've got literally mountains of work to make up from when I was too sick to lift my head off the pillow, much less a pen. As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to those who reviewed last chapter, **NutsandVolts** and **Chlocook**._

_We've made it to interview day! No, we won't get up to our tributes' actual interviews today, but we do get to have a bit of fun ('fun' because we're not actually experiencing it, I guess) in prep!_

* * *

14

Interview Day dawns, the sky an opalescent white. It's the first time I can remember there _not_ being sun in the Capitol. Somehow, I'm relieved to know that the weather here isn't as contrived as everything else about this place, but the lack of sunshine can't help but feel like a bad omen.

Deirdre spends pretty much the entire day in her room, being primped and styled by her prep team, having her features erased and then recreated with makeup, completely different from how they'd looked before. Lucretia is gone for much of the day, too—apparently, she's secured something called a 'spa treatment' for herself, to get herself looking fresh for the cameras. You'd think it was _she_ who was getting interviewed for television.

Beetee and I spend much of the morning at the dining room table, swapping notes on our tributes' interview tactics and doing yet another crossword. "Shouldn't your prep team be making their way in any time now?" Beetee asks me curiously, looking around as if they'd suddenly spring into view from nowhere.

"Prep team?" I ask, even though I do recall them threatening—or was that meant to be reassuring?—me with the news that they'd be 'giving me the works' for Interviews.

"Oh, yes, darling," announces Felix's voice from somewhere behind me, his timing impeccable as usual. "Time to pull out all the stops." I shiver, my mind flashing back again to Felix's promises to give me 'the works' for interviews.

"What…what stops are we pulling…pulling out, if I may ask?" I inquire. Felix grins broadly and Beetee quickly disguises his laugh as a hacking cough. Behind Felix, someone—probably Torque's stylist, and likely Beetee's as well, I reason—mutters something about the unhealthy polluted air in District 3.

"The prep team's in with your tribute at the moment…when I go in to dress her, they'll be in to see you. But I wanted to show you your new dress first, so you know how to put it on, in case I get held up."

The fact that this dress apparently requires _instructions_ for me to know how to put it on doesn't bode well.

* * *

Felix's latest creation is made of some sort of sleek, satiny fabric. It's not shiny, but it has a certain luster to it in the light. I can't find the words to describe it adequately, and for once I find myself wishing I came from District 8 so that I could feel more knowledgeable about my new outfit. What surprises me most is that there is not a single crinoline, hoopskirt or petticoat in sight. The dress—which is a muted teal color of sorts—has a _straight_ skirt. Knowing Felix, I'd expected a circus tent.

"Felix," I say breathlessly, "I think this is the least fabric I've ever seen you use!"

Felix looks mildly abashed. "One of the other stylists mentioned that the rows are narrow," he explains, "and I didn't want the skirt to tear when you're getting in and out of your seat. But don't worry; I _fully_ intend to show the world that you've got a gorgeous figure!"

He brightens considerably at this exciting prospect, and all I can think is, _oh, no…not the—_

After yet another painful scrubbing and waxing (there was nothing _to_ wax, considering that they'd just done so a couple of days ago, but they either didn't realize or didn't care) session at the hands of my prep team, I find myself clinging to the footboard of my bed as my hairstylist Cornelius pulls the laces on the infernal corset Felix so inexplicably enjoys forcing me to wear. I wonder how constrictive underwear hasn't managed to go out of fashion in the Capitol yet.

"Got—it," he gasps through gritted teeth. His colleagues let out a cheer. You'd think I had thirty or forty extra pounds on me that have just been successfully concealed.

They motion for me to raise my arms, which I do obediently, and they slip the dress on, zip up the back, and fasten a sash or belt of sorts around my tightly-laced waist. Well, Felix wanted a figure, and a figure I most certainly have now. This dress is so snug-fitting—I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call it _tight_, but it doesn't leave much room for…well, anything—that I look very glamorous, very sophisticated. Very reminiscent of my tribute, come to think of it. Aurelia, the only woman on my prep team, fastens a glittering brooch to the left side of the dress, frowns, moves it to the right side, frowns more deeply, then returns it to the left side. Cornelius keeps checking his watch as he curls my hair, one long lock at a time, then pins back the sides with jewel-studded hairpins. Horace, the remaining member of my team, coats my face with a thick layer of something that comes from an aerosol can. He pulls out a pencil to darken my brows, stares at them for a good five minutes or so, then puts the pencil away. "No need," he trills foolishly, "they're already dark enough!" Instead, he pulls out a tube of black liquid to draw dramatic lines along my eyelids, which he does studiously, biting down on his tongue unconsciously as he works.

On and on and on. I watch in mild interest as Horace and Aurelia work on my face, as Cornelius sprays stray strands of hair into obedience, and then finally, by some miracle, they all step back. "Done!" Horace cries with the air of an artist unveiling his life's greatest work. I stand in front of the mirror uncertainly, eternally grateful that the shoes they've given me are not unreasonably high.

Aurelia clears her throat and extends a hand clutching a very small purse with no shoulder strap and what appears to be a wadded-up bundle of white fabric. "How do I wear it?" I ask, indicating the purse.

"Poor silly darling!" coos Aurelia, "You don't _wear_ it; you _carry_ it! And put your gloves on!"

So that's what the wadded-up white things are. The gloves are tight-fitting and extend to maybe an inch below my elbow. I raise an eyebrow inquiringly. "Why gloves?" I question them, "it's not cold out."

"To hide those skinny wrists of yours, dear," Horace explains, since this is clearly obvious to everyone but me. "Stand up nice and straight, now, that's it—see, _now_ you look almost like a lady!"

Apparently basking in the satisfaction of a job well done, making me look almost like a lady, they file out of my room, Horace warning me not to touch my face while wearing the white gloves—or, for that matter, at all. I listen at the door, waiting for them to head out towards the elevator, then I finally chance exiting my room.

Everyone is gathered around the dining area, admiring our tributes. Torque is dressed in a dark gray suit, made of a material I've once heard Felix call 'sharkskin', though it doesn't look anything like any of the pictures of sharks I've ever seen in books. It's very faintly shiny and if you look closely, you can see a subtle pattern, the same pattern Felix had done on Deirdre's parade costume. Deirdre, meanwhile, looks absolutely dazzling. Her strapless silver gown is covered from top to bottom in silver sequins and stones. She looks like a diamond, plain and simple. I've seen diamonds here in the Capitol, so I know what they look like. If I were to wear a dress like hers—or anyone else, for that matter—I'd look completely overdone. But Felix must know what he's doing, because aside from a pair of dangly earrings and a single large, finely-wrought silver ring, Deirdre is otherwise unadorned. Her long dark curls are loose again, and her makeup is fairly neutral, excepting the tiny clear rhinestones the prep team has affixed to the corners of her eyes, accentuated with shimmering pale eye shadow. They look wonderful together—eye-catching without being over-the-top. Unlike certain _other_ people…

Lucretia has returned from her spa, her face shiny pink even with all her heavy makeup, dressed to the nines. She is very elaborately outfitted in a dress that was possibly tailor-made to match her newly pink skin. It is made _entirely_ of pink sequins. Though Deirdre's dress is sequined, too, hers manages not to look gaudy or cheap. Lucretia's doesn't quite achieve the same effect. My eyes hurt just looking at it, so I look at a large potted plant by the door instead.

"Are we ready?" asks Beetee, who is staring unapologetically at Lucretia's sequined dress. She seems to take notice. "Do you like it?" she asks, like an overeager child seeking its parents' approval. Her tone is ebullient, almost flirtatious, and Beetee looks quite taken aback.

"It's, um…certainly unforgettable," replies Beetee diplomatically. Torque disguises a derisive laugh as a cough, something Lucretia thankfully doesn't notice. Satisfied, Lucretia leads the way out towards the elevator, leaving us to follow. Beetee offers me his arm, and—feeling rather grand—I take it gratefully. "She looks like she covered herself in glue and fell into a jewelry box…or maybe into District One," Beetee leans in and whispers in my ear, and it's impossible to keep from laughing.

Two elevators arrive at once. The first is rather crowded, so Lucretia literally _pushes_ Deidre and Torque inside and instructs them to wait for us in the lobby. We share the second elevator down with the mentors and escort from District Six. One of them is drinking from a flask hidden in his jacket pocket. He's giving off a powerful smell of liquor. It seems like we can't reach the ground floor soon enough, but the elevator halts again on Level One and we all push back to accommodate the District One crowd. Their female mentor, whose district partner refers to her as Ambergris, is wearing a _very_ provocative-looking red dress, with lots of cut-out sections. I wonder idly how the dress is staying up, and how she's staying in it. She's defying all known laws of gravity here. Before I can reach a conclusion that satisfies me, the elevator comes to a halt and everyone starts filing out.

Torque and Deirdre are waiting obediently outside the elevator doors. Both of them freeze, like a pair of mannequins in a shop window, and stare openly at Ambergris as she saunters out of the elevator. The rest of the delegation from One follows her, followed by the group from Six, the boozy mentor stumbling a little. Beetee nudges Torque slightly.

"Put your eyes back in," he mutters, "you haven't even seen the _tributes_ from One yet; they're usually dressed even more…um, _suggestively_…than the mentors." He catches my eye and smiles. "Have you figured it out yet?" he asks, and I look politely puzzled.

"Figured out…?"

"How she's managed to keep everything in its place," he clarifies. "Ambergris' dress. I can practically _see_ you trying to work it out."

"If my stylist put _me_ in that thing…"

"I'm sure you'd dazzle us all."

"I'd lock myself in my bathroom and refuse to come out," I protest. I'm embarrassed even by the _idea_ of showing that much skin in public.

"She tries too hard," Beetee says after a moment of reflection. The tributes look lost, but I can see what he's saying, I think. One's never sure with Beetee.

"That she does," I merely reply.

"Tributes over here please!" calls some Capitol man—a surprisingly soberly-dressed one, with a headset on—and we lead our tributes to the backstage area. As we walk, I swear I hear Beetee mutter, "For what it's worth, I think you look much prettier than her, anyway."

It's worth _something_ to me, but I can't imagine for the life of me _why_ this is so. I file it away in the growing collection of Indecipherable Beetee Moments—IBMs—in my mind.

* * *

_I know, I'm sure everyone was looking forward to seeing the actual interviews, but I had to leave_ something_ really good for tomorrow, didn't I? Especially since tomorrow's Friday and all. So take this as a chance to get your bets in-whose interview do you think will be memorable, and whose will be an out-and-out disaster? We've seen some interesting sides of the tributes so far, but now we'll get to know them a bit more. And we're meeting more victors tomorrow! Yay!_

_As for Ambergris' dress, three words: Double sided tape. And no, I've never tried it. I prefer to spend my time_ enjoying_ social occasions, not worrying about falling out of my dress. Guess I wouldn't cut it in District One. _

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed today's update and please do me the favor of dropping your review by, while you're eagerly anticipating chapter 15!_

_Cheers,_

_Delilah_


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